


Murder Me Softly

by Freya_Ishtar



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: AU-Voldemort Wins, Angst, Drama, F/M, Gen, Haunting, Humor, Multi, Romance, Smut, ghost - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-13
Updated: 2018-03-13
Packaged: 2019-03-30 18:47:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 20
Words: 67,735
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13957734
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Freya_Ishtar/pseuds/Freya_Ishtar
Summary: Upon Harry's death, Hermione finds herself & other Muggle-borns at Voldemort's mercy. Forced into marriage with not one, but two of his loyal followers, she's certain his intention is to break her. Neither she, nor her grooms are aware of the Dark Lord's true purpose in creating such matches, or that emotions may trip up his grand design.*Poly-Marriage Law Fic*





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> 1) Some things in my portrayals of Antonin Dolohov & Thorfinn Rowle are based on the backgrounds & character dynamics Canimal created for these characters in her Mage's Captive fics. I do this with her knowledge and permission.
> 
> 2) This fic will be darkish. As the writing is in-progress as I'm posting it, I can't speak to exactly what it will contain, BUT expect character death, violence, possessive behavior, smut, mention of—and reference to—non-con, talk of self-harm and attempted suicide.
> 
> 3) FANCAST: Michiel Huisman as Antonin Dolohov (thank Canimal for that, too ;) ); Chris Hemsworth as Thorfinn Rowle; Sebastian Stan as *Augustin & Corvus Selwyn (specific to his role as Jefferson in Once Upon a Time)
> 
> * Augustin and Corvus Selwyn are my personal take on the canon character of Selwyn.
> 
> Disclaimer: Harry Potter and all affiliated characters © JK Rowling.

  

**Chapter One**

It was as Harry Potter fell that a single, brilliant and gleaming idea struck Voldemort. The battle, the struggle, all the stumbling blocks this boy had placed in his path . . . .

This war Potter had come _so_ achingly close to winning . . . .

They all pointed to one simple, yet startling conclusion that Voldemort had not wanted to admit, but was clearly undeniable.

Harry Potter had been a formidable wizard in his own right. If he'd managed to get the boy under his sway when he'd tried, he might've had the Wizarding World in his clutches that much sooner.

Lifting his gaze from the fallen young wizard, Voldemort surveyed the battle still raging around him. Potter's followers knew they had lost, yet they kept fighting. Wasted efforts,  _but_  commendable, nonetheless.

This world was his, now. And he wanted more like Harry Potter to help him hold his rule for  _decades_  to come. His attention touched on each combatant as he turned in a slow circle.

He could simply seek out those like Potter, born from the blending of pure  _and_ muddied blood. However, locating them and swaying them to his will seemed an arduous task that would do nothing more than distract him from sculpting the Wizarding world according to his design.

But there  _was_  another way to secure his impending reign.

In order to have more wizards like Harry Potter, he would have to  _recreate_  the means by which Potter had come to be. Scooped up by him and trained from early on, as he perhaps  _should_ have done with Potter, rather than trying to end him. Taught to revere their Dark Lord and serve him without question.

The first step, of course, was for such a being to have a powerful Muggle-born witch for a mother, a pure-blood for a father . . . .

_Yes._  This idea was so brilliant and clear that there was a strange sort of bliss to it.

He turned his gaze back to one witch, in particular—still in the thick of the fray. Still standing while her comrades fell in droves.

An experiment would be necessary, of course.

But first, he needed to organize his new empire. He needed his reign clear, and his power base stabilized before there was anything to be  _kept_  secure.

He watched in a strange sort of calm as she dropped Antonin Dolohov with stunningly well-timed  _Petrificus Totalus,_ leaving her to face off against Thorfinn Rowle.

With a tired sigh—she should've killed her opponent,  _silly girl_ —Voldemort took aim. The witch never saw  _his_  petrification spell coming.

As she fell, Thorfinn looked toward the caster. "My Lord," he said through clenched teeth, "I _had_  her!"

"I know you did, Thorfinn." Voldemort made his way to them. He slipped the wand from the girl's fingers, snapping it in two—Bellatrix's wand, pity—before hurling the counter spell to unlock Dolohov's body with an almost careless flourish.

"Do not harm her. I want _all_  the Mudbloods gathered up—as unharmed as you can manage, if you would."

Thorfinn had a  _bad_ feeling about the gleam in the Dark Lord's eyes. He didn't like it, even as he hoisted the petrified girl up and tossed her—somewhat gently, as their Lord's command was clear—over his shoulder.

As Antonin climbed to his feet, he exchanged a confused glance with Thorfinn. He was admittedly relieved he wasn't being forced to kill her, but the Dark Lord had a plan in mind . . . .

And that concerned him  _deeply_.

* * *

**_Eight Months Later_ **

Thorfinn and Antonin gaped at the Dark Lord . . . . Surely there had been something they'd misunderstood in what he was asking of them—well, not asking, because the Dark Lord didn't  _ask_  for anything, he _demanded_  it. Regardless, they each felt certain they could not have heard their Lord's orders correctly; they just  _couldn't_  have.

" _Both_  of us?" The younger wizard asked, his brow furrowing.

Voldemort gave a bored nod.

Thorfinn winced, as though trying to wrap his brain around this  _mission_  was giving him a headache. Not that Antonin could very much say he blamed the other man.

"I don't believe  _this_  is a two-person task, My Lord," Antonin said, shaking his head. "I could see to this, myself."

With a painful-seeming turn of his head, Thorfinn pinned Antonin with a glare. "Tell me you're joking! We're being ordered to  _wed_  that vile little bitch, and all you can think is about is that you won't have her all to yourself?"

"This is not about me, or you, or even her. This is about overkill and the Dark Lord's forces being shorted by not one, but two of his followers while this is carried out."

Nodding, Thorfinn frowned thoughtfully as he crossed his legs at the ankles and leaned back in his seat, his arms folded across his chest. "Really? Because I thought the problem was that you can't keep your  _wand_  tucked away when it comes to her."

" _Enough_." Voldemort was irked by their petulant behavior. Of course, Thorfinn was young and headstrong, and overly confident. Antonin harbored some bizarre fascination for the girl. The rationale of each side only proved they could not understand why they were  _both_ required for this.

"I care not for your feelings on the matter, nor your petty squabbling," the serpentine wizard said in a low, scathing voice.

At his tone, both men snapped their attention to their Lord. They immediately bowed their heads and uttered apologies.

"You are not the only ones receiving such an order. Each of my inner circle is participating in this experiment. I can, and will trust no one else with such a task. The formal, binding _rite_  of marriage is required, as Ministry research has shown that children born to witches or wizards out of wedlock turn out as  _squibs_." *****

They both looked thunderstruck by that tidbit of information. To think, the previous Ministry's regimes had never thought to actually investigate the matter, simply writing off squib births as some form of birth defect.

But Voldemort was nothing if not thorough. He'd needed the assurance that his experiment would produce _no_  useless outcomes.

Heaving a weighted sigh, Voldemort tapped a long, bony finger against his jaw. "This Mudblood is  _special_. She is the last remnant of Harry Potter's _precious_ D.A. And, during her incarceration, she has gained herself something of a reputation for being . . .  _feisty_."

Thorfinn's brows shot up at the word choice, but he kept his mouth shut.

"She is an exception.  _That_  is why I require two," Voldemort said, his voice hissing out through tightly clenched teeth. " I want her  _ground_ down."

Antonin lifted the scroll, perusing it once more to see the terms of this  _marriage_. Farce or not, sharing her or not, she would be his in some measure, and he couldn't quite seem to think around that notion.

Holding in an annoyed groan that would only show his age, he was sure, Thorfinn dropped his gaze to the floor. There was  _no_  getting out of this, and he doubted this was going to be nearly as fun as he once imagined having Hermione Granger at his mercy might be.

* * *

Hermione grinned viciously from behind the bars of her cell door as the Auror assigned to her limped away to check what damage her squarely leveled kick might've done to his bits.

Gripping her hands around the cold iron, she shouted after him, "Maybe next time you'll listen when I say _don't_  touch me!"

The only answer she received was the door to the solitary confinement wing slamming shut. Sighing, she turned away, taking a deep breath of the musty air in her familiar little cage.

Kicking up one of the loose stones from the floor, she grabbed it and went back to the veritable novel she'd been etching into the wall. Really, it was the only way to keep sane. She could hear the others, sometimes, talking to themselves, pacing, singing softly.

Not Hermione Granger. She spent her days writing her account of the Second Wizarding War, and everything that had led up to it. From the day she'd met Harry Potter to the present, she was determined to get down  _every_ detail.

It helped her keep track of the passage of time,  _and_ gave her busy work for her mind and hands. She sat on her knees on the cold, unforgiving stone floor and continued her tale.

It also helped to realize that Voldemort, for whatever warped purpose he might have in mind, was keeping her and the other surviving Muggle-borns unharmed. Containing them all on floor off-limits to the Dementors, and Aurors who threatened, but never laid a hand on them, other than to push them about from time to time—a theory Hermione had personally tested every chance she got—were a glaringly clear indication of that.

Honestly, she might even consider her incarceration pleasant, if not for the occasional sounds of her prison-mates slowly going mad from the monotony, and the mindless blending of one day into the next.

She was pretty sure something like eight months had passed since they'd been dragged from Hogwarts and thrown in here, but she could be off by a few weeks. She was certain some days she'd forgotten to mark.

The door to the solitary wing opened, but Hermione ignored the sound. She was far too busy writing about the day she'd learned of the Order of the Phoenix. She supposed she always  _did_ question if her knowledge of the Order's existence had inspired her to create Dumbledore's Army . . . it was certainly plausible.

"On your feet, Granger."

"I've already had my very refreshing, ice-cold hosing down today, thanks very much," she said, not bothering to even glance over her shoulder.

Her cell door opened, and Hermione turned, her expression severe. The loss of all her friends, the darkened fate of the Wizarding World, the terror of whatever Voldemort had planned for her and those like her . . . . She'd wept and screamed and raged for all of that months ago.

By the end of her seventh week of captivity, there was  _nothing_  left accept her anger. Her life as she'd known it was over, she might as well be dead. That there was a clear effort to keep her alive, however, only emboldened her.

_Every_  encounter with the Aurors had become a dare for them to kill her. And not one of them had taken the bait.

"Go  _away_ ," she said, her chestnut eyes narrowing lethally. There was a certain satisfaction simmering through her at how the wizard backpedaled a step at her tone.

He shook his head, trying for a brave front, which would be easier, was he permitted to hex the little bitch. But knowing what awful fate awaited if any of them damaged one of the Dark Lord's  _special_  prisoners was not worth the moments of glee he would feel hitting her with a Cruciatus curse.

"Can't. You've got a visitor. Now  _move_."

_Huh_. Surprise. That was something she hadn't felt in a long while.

Brows shooting up, she dropped her makeshift writing implement and climbed to her feet.

Careful to avoid anything that might seem like intended bodily contact, the Auror turned and led her from her cell. Down the long row of similar cages and out the door of the solitary confinement wing they went.

As Hermione walked, she looked into the other cells, confirming something she thought she'd noticed while being led back from her forcible and unpleasant washing a short time earlier. It wasn't her imagination . . . .

Some of the cells were, indeed, empty.

She puzzled over where her fellow prisoners might've been taken for such a long period of time as the Auror guided her through a strangely less dank and depressing corridor she'd never seen before. The solid wooden doors lining the otherwise blank walls made think that perhaps these were offices or quarters for the Aurors—or both.

Maybe there was finally an answer to be had about their mysterious incarceration.

He pushed open the last door along the left wall and ushered her inside.

She stepped into the pleasantly decorated office, her battered bare feet soothed by the unexpected cushion of plush carpet beneath them. Hermione felt vaguely as though she was in one of those spy dramas her mum and dad used to watch—with the villain in the giant chair turned away from the hero, so the audience could only guess who it was.

But the chair was not faced away from her, and she already knew the villain of her story. He sat right there, staring back at her, beady-eyed, a grin twisting his thin, ugly lips.

"Hermione Granger," he said, his tone syrupy sweet.

The unexpected nicety in his voice unsettled her, kicking of something in the pit of her stomach that—like surprise—she'd not felt in quite some time.  _Fear_.

But she refused to let him see that she was scared. He'd taken everything else from her, she would  _not_  give him her last shred of dignity, too.

Tilting her chin defiantly, she held his gaze steadily as she said, "Tom Riddle." That simmering satisfaction returned at the bite of anger that crossed his snaky face, tempering her fear somewhat

Ever the mindful and masterful manipulator, however, Voldemort got his palatable irritation with her in check, keeping that smarmy grin in place. "You do realize,  _Hermione_ , that the last people to call me by that name are all dead."

"Aren't they lucky, then?"

"I see talk of your rebellious attitude rings true," he said his voice thoughtful, now; he found her spirited nature quite amusing. She wished for death—if not for her unwitting position as would-be mother of his future first lieutenant, he might have acquiesced.

"What is it you want with me, anyway,  _Tom_?"

"I want to offer you a gift." With a flick of his wand, a package upon the desk before him rose up and floated across the room to hover before her. "Open it, I assure you it won't bite," he assured her when she hesitated to take it.

Her gaze cold as it held his—needless to say, a gift from Voldemort was the last thing she expected—she snatched the parcel from the air in a swift, angry motion. Tearing through the surprisingly pretty giftwrap, she pulled off the top of the box.

Hermione's brow furrowed as she set the down the package in the nearest chair and pulled out the dress robes. The lovely gown of black silk and lace was possibly the most confusing item she could've expected to find in there.

"What _is_  this?"

Her very obvious shock delighted him. "Dear little Mudblood, it's your wedding dress."

She dropped it to the floor, immediately wiping her hands on her tatty,  _beyond_ -threadbare prison gown. "I don't . . . I'm not . . . .  _What_ are you talking about?!"

Voldemort stood, the slenderness of his form making him seem even more towering as he rounded the desk to loom over her. He caught her chin in his bony fingers and forced her to look up at him.

"Don't you understand, Hermione?" He flashed that disturbing grin at her, once more. "You're to be married today."

Hermione's stomach dropped straight to her feet and her eyes shot wide. She very much did  _not_ understand.

Wrenching her chin from his unforgiving grip, she backpedaled a few steps. "Married to whom?"

"Not to worry, dear. You will meet your grooms when we reach the Ministry."

She was so flustered that the pluralized word escaped her notice. "I'm not leaving! I would sooner kiss a Dementor than go  _anywhere_  with you."

Voldemort actually  _laughed_. The ugly sound was a full, boisterous chuckle that sent a chill down her spine and raised goosebumps on her arms.

"Hermione Granger, you are the brightest witch of your age, so what do you think it means when I tell you that you have _no_  rights?"

Her responding look as all he needed. Those chestnut eyes were still wide, but now her jaw gaped a little, and she forced a very audible gulp down her throat.

She understood now— _ye_ s, he was positive—that was obvious. She grasped that he could do anything he wished to her, and there was nothing anyone could, or would do, stop him. The little witch's continued silence pleased him.

"You will dress, now, or _I_  will do it for you, and I assure you, I will take effort to be so  _very_  unkind about it, that you will wish I would grant you the mercy of death."

He swept from the room—she found it odd that he allowed her the courtesy of privacy for this—the door slamming shut behind him. But then, she was already well aware, there was nothing in this room which would help her escape, and the Aurors had realized months ago to remove anything with which she, or the other  _protected_  prisoners could harm themselves.

This was what had happened to the missing Muggle-borns? They'd been dragged from their cells and forced into wedlock? To whom, and for what purpose?

Her mind flooded with childhood fairytales of young maidens married off to monsters to maintain peace, or cement some deal. Was that what this was? Voldemort was using them as bargaining chips of some sort?

Frowning, she bit hard into her bottom lip as her gaze fell on her unfortunately beautiful dress robes. The last thing she wanted was to put them on, but the alternative of Voldemort putting her in a body bind and doing it for her was not something she wished to think about.

She didn't want to give him any more excuses to make skin contact with her.

Whoever he was marrying her off to, she was  _going_  to make their life a living hell—maybe  _they'd_  be so kind as to kill her.

Hermione stripped off her familiar old prison gown and let it fall to the floor. As she bent to reach for the dress robes, she noticed from the corner of her eye that there was something more in the unwanted gift box.

Tipping the corner of the box to upend it, a second tumble of black lace and satin fell out. She picked up the satin first—surprisingly sensible satin slippers that were likely to cushion the soles of her tormented feet as much as the carpet. A shockingly thoughtful part of her present.

But then, she turned her gaze to the bundle of lace. As she scooped them up, she swallowed hard. A ball of icy fear formed in the pit of her stomach as she examined the barely-there black lace undergarments. Clearly selected by a man, and clearly intended to make her more aesthetically appealing to her intended on her wedding night.

She closed her eyes tight and tried to quell a sudden fit of trembling. Inhaling and deep, and exhaling slow, she gave a stern shake of her head and slipped on the bra and knickers that were all form and no function—the knickers could be mistaken for a decorative eye patch, and the bra for wisp-thin doilies strung together by fanciful ribbons. No matter, she told herself as she stepped into the slippers and finally pulled on her dress robes, which, rather disturbingly, fit her like a glove.

_No panicking, Hermione,_ she thought, her internal voice far steadier than she felt. She would not give Voldemort the satisfaction. She'd already decided he was not going to take away her last shred of dignity, and she was  _determined_ to see that through.

She squared her shoulders and started for the door, strangely aware in her new, clean and pretty attire that she had no idea if her face might be smudged with dirt from her cell, despite her recent hosing-down. Her hair probably looked like a rat's nest—it had gotten impossibly long during her incarceration, and it was hardly as though she had the luxury of a hairbrush.

Oh, well, maybe her future husband would be terrified by the wild, golden brown tangle that probably looked more like a lion's mane than hair and change his mind.

Silly as that thought was, it was also comforting.

But then, as she opened the door, she was hit squarely in the face with a Tergeo charm.

Blinking and coughing out a surprised breath at the sudden kick of the cleaning spell, she gave her head a shake. She was turned by her shoulders during that moment of distraction and felt hands tugging through her hair.

"What—?"

She'd been turned to face the impatient-looking, snaky Dark wizard, the he seemed quietly amused by her discomfort as she tried to glance over her shoulder. Honestly, it wasn't as though she'd forgotten Voldemort's reputation for pettiness, despite his grand designs, so she supposed there was no point in being shocked that he enjoyed her visible irritation with her predicament.

"Quit your moaning," the nasty old wretch who oversaw the solitary confinement wing snapped as she unhappily tugged a brush through the messy locks. Hermione would  _never_  forget that miserable witch's voice; she could be heard at all hours, imagining aloud all the terrible things she wanted to do to the wing's prisoners.

Even now, Hermione was painfully aware of the muttering going on behind her back. The woman who'd just told her not to moan was griping and moaning under her breath. Each tug of the brush was accompanied by a quietly snarled threat of what she would do to the girl standing before her _, if only the Dark Lord would allow it._

And she was not even trying to be kind of careful about her task. The sharp tugs and yanks at Hermione's scalp made her eyes water and the tip of her nose sting.

After what seemed an unbearable amount of time—yet probably not _nearly_ as long as it had felt, Hermione was aware—Voldemort finally held up a pale, skeletal hand. "Enough fussing."

"Of course, My Lord," the old bitch said in a placating tone as she bowed and stepped back.

"Come along, now. We are expected," he said, turning away.

He shot one hand back, roughly clamping it over Hermione's wrist to tug her along. She couldn't help herself—using the cover of the unexpected pull to jam her heel against the elder witch's shin.

A pained gasp met her ears, bringing a smile to her lips as she continued along the corridor with her megalomaniacal chaperone. Glancing over her shoulder just before they turned the corner to exit the solitary confinement wing, altogether, she noticed the embittered old creature had crumbled.

_God_ , Hermione hoped she broke a bone with that kick.

"Sometimes, I consider it a travesty that you were not born a pure-blood," he said in a mildly shocked tone, shaking his head as he led her through the horrible institution.

"You and half of Wizarding Britain," she replied through lightly clenched teeth. She might see the compliment in the statement, if not for the overwhelmingly insulting notion that housed it.

They continued the rest of the way in silence. She tried hard to ignore the occasionally brushes of cold and sorrow that flitted through her whenever they past a patrolling Dementor, though, the sting of Voldemort's tight, bony grasp on her wrist was a marvelous distraction.

To the Warden's office, she was dragged along. Through the door, and past the desk of a man who she swore must be the product of Kreacher bedding a female troll.

"My Lord," he said with a bow of his head as he opened an ancient and cracked ledger in front of him. With a wave of his wand, he turned the pages, before lifting his quill in gnarled fingers to make a notation. "Hermione Granger . . . . Won't be sorry to see this one go."

Voldemort did not join the man-creature in his chuckling. "I gathered. Her reputation quite precedes her."

The fearsome Dark Lord's bored tone almost made Hermione laugh. Apparently, even he could get irritated with lame jokes from wizards desperate to ingratiate themselves.

Though, she was certain that had more to do with the lame joke, and less the ingratiating wizards. There was almost nothing he seemed to like more than people groveling for his attention, after all.

That, and she was pretty sure this increasingly dire and very  _real_  predicament from which she could not escape might have caused her to go a touch loopy.

Voldemort activated the Floo in the hearth, stepping through He yanked Hermione so hard to follow that she stumbled across the threshold between the linked fireplaces. She managed to stop herself from colliding with him by a hair's breadth.

The luxurious office she found herself in could only be the office of the Minister of Magic. But the dark, twisted feel of that luxury told her one thing—the creature tugging her on hurried footfalls through the room had taken that post for himself.

Not that she was much surprised—why waste time pulling a puppet's strings when puppets could fail you.

As they barreled out the door and along through the main floor of the Ministry, everyone who saw the serpentine wizard coming their way backpedaled and bowed their heads. Some went the extra mile and gave deep, sweeping gestures of fealty.

No one seemed to care, or even pay mind, to the witch he was dragging behind him. She could only guess this wasn't the first such spectacle they'd witnessed.

If they weren't in such a rush, she might have the presence of mind to roll her eyes. She also refused to pay too much attention to her surroundings; Hermione was certain she did not want to note the changes Voldemort's reign had brought to the Ministry's once bright and gleaming interior.

It wasn't long before she recognized the path along which he pulled her. She was being taken to the Wizengamot chamber.

The reality of her situation settled on her once again, making it difficult for her to breath. The well-fitted dress suddenly strangling and confining; every other sound died away as her own footfalls and the beat of her heart pounded in her ears. She could feel the weight of the air pressing against her skin.

Two wizards stationed outside the chambers opened the doors for them. She was startled, but oddly relieved to see that there was no audience for this travesty.

Yet, at the front of the chamber, she spied a familiar head of pale-blond hair.

She gave a start as she met the familiar grey eyes of Draco Malfoy. He mirrored her reaction at the sight of her, immediately shaking his head.

His eyes wide, he pointed to himself and mouthed the word  _witness._ Then, he nodded to one side of the chamber.

As they reached the center of the floor, Voldemort finally relinquished his grip on her wrist. "Do not move," he said as left her to move unto the dais and continued on, seating himself at the Minister's bench.

Clasping her hands tight to keep herself from fidgeting, she finally made herself look to place in the grand chamber Draco had indicated. Thorfinn Rowle and Antonin Dolohov stared back at her.

She couldn't stop the startled gasp that choked out of her as she backpedaled, nearly stumbling over her own two feet.

Antonin Dolohov—the man she'd had nightmares about chasing her through the Hall of Prophecy, the man whose mysterious attack spell had nearly taken her life at sixteen years old—winced at her reaction. Odd, but it could not register on her, just now.

Thorfinn, who'd been an absolute menace to her during her first year and his seventh, who she last remembered tossing her over his shoulder to bring her to Azkaban, scowled unpleasantly. Raking a hand through his long, golden hair, he shook his head.

"We're not any happier about this than you are, Princess."

Hermione tried to control her breathing, tried not to panic as she thought back. She'd been so sure she'd misheard Voldemort, so she'd written of that one word that  _shouldn't_  have been pluralized, yet had been.

_Not to worry, dear. You will meet your_ grooms  _when we reach the Ministry._

Blinking hard to keep tears of shock and rage and, yes, even fright, in her eyes where they bloody well belonged, she turned her gaze on Voldemort as she fought to breathe. That smarmy grin from earlier had returned to twist his lips, and she realized . . . .

_This_  was the reaction he'd wanted to see from her.

* * *

***** personal assertion, not necessarily canon, as there is no mention of out-of-wedlock births to be found (you'd figure if anyone would be a  _bastard_ , it would be Voldie, but even his parents were hitched [despite the less-than-favorable circumstances of said hitching]).


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter Two**

Aware that the attention of everyone else in the room—that  _everyone_  being three Death Eaters and their seemingly immortal leader—was on her, Hermione reined in her fear. Closing her mouth and schooling her features, she feigned a bored sigh as she shrugged.

"You did say groom _s_ ," she said, her gaze cold as she stared back at Voldemort. "I just didn't really believe you wanted me responsible for two murders on my wedding night, rather than just the one."

Antonin's lips folded inward to hold in a surprised chuckle.

Brows shooting up as he nodded, Thorfinn muttered to the dark-haired wizard beside him, "Feisty . . . check."

She fixed Thorfinn with a lethal glare, which he returned eagerly. Antonin rolled his eyes, slapping a hand against his forehead.

Some meters away, Draco watched the exchange with a cringe. Strangely, the Dark Lord had been  _almost_  considerate in the other matches he'd created.  _This_  lopsided match, however, seemed even more off-kilter than one would imagine a wedding already involving one bride and two grooms would be.

There were suspicions that the Dark Lord was using this vaguely-defined  _experiment_ of his as more than a way to keep track and control of the Muggle-borns' offspring. The spectacle in this near-empty chamber only confirmed the notion that there _was_  some ulterior motive in the matches Voldemort was arranging.

No real news, there, though, as he  _always_  seemed to have a plan within a plan. One which only  _he_ had any awareness of, yet God help anyone who interfered.

Yet, it wasn't until Draco stood here, watching Voldemort's joy at Granger's reaction to her circumstances, that he realized _this_  one was different from the others. Another ulterior motive to toss on the pile, he supposed. Voldemort had deliberately gone out of his way to select the  _worst_ wizard Granger could ever imagine herself being bound to—and  _two_  of them, no less.

Not that Draco could say he was very much surprised, what with the enormous role she played in Voldemort coming so close to losing the Second Wizarding War. Yet, somehow, he  _still_ found himself constantly shocked by the pettiness exhibited by their Lord.

How quick she was to regain her composure tempered the edges of Voldemort's obvious glee. Clearing his throat with an angry sound, he unfurled a scroll before him.

"Hermione Granger," he said, his voice somehow both icy and scathing in the same breath as he uttered her name.

Conscious of her features and posture—her lips pressed into a thin line, her eyes narrowed, her shoulders squared and her head held high—she remained silent. Not that her declination or agreement in this very much mattered.

"You stand before the Minister of Magic, and Lord of Wizarding Britain, on this fourth day of December in the year 1998. As the terms of your sentence have stripped you of any rights, or citizenship, you are considered property of the Ministry."

She tried not to react, barely hiding that his statement caused a hard swallow down her throat. She wasn't certain what was more unsettling, that she'd not even registered the passing of her own birthday a few months ago due to her incarceration, or the way he proclaimed that she was the one person standing in the room who was  _not_  legally considered a person.

Well, prison did have a way of skewing one's priorities, she supposed.

"As such, it is the Ministry's decision that you are given over, in the binding rite of marriage, to Antonin Dolohov and Thorfinn Rowle." Voldemort was scratching away with a quill at the scroll, no doubt filling in all the necessary information to make the rite stick.

"Antonin, Thorfinn, do you accept the terms of this rite?"

Hermione tried desperately not to look at them from the corner of her eye as they responded in one, mingled voice. Tried and failed. As they both said  _I do,_ Thorfinn scowled and fidgeted, and Antonin's dark-eyed gaze seemed to dart about the space before him, but avoided skirting anywhere in her direction.

More scratching with his quill, but this time a wisp of sparkling purple rose from the parchment.

She closed her eyes against the sudden, unexpected wash of angry and frustrated tears, swallowing hard, once more. The magic was responding to this sham of a wedding. She was _really_  being handed over to these two.

Despite everything that had happened in the last, incredibly complicated, hour of her life, there had still been the hope that this had all been some sick, cruel joke. That Voldemort would terrify her with the reality of how powerless she was and then throw her back in Azkaban.

She should be so lucky.

"Hermione Granger, do you accept?"

Her nostrils flared and her eyes narrowed further, still. "Do I even have a choice?"

Voldemort granted her a vicious grin. "You do not," he said, making them all plainly aware that that was  _precisely_  why he'd asked.

Hermione's gaze skittered over to Draco, stationed beside the Minister's bench. There was an expression on his face she was surprised to realize was sympathy.

War really  _did_  change people.

Voldemort spoke as he returned his attention to filling out the scroll. "Hermione Granger accepts. From this day forward, she is recognized as Hermione Dolohov-Rowle." Another wisp of sparkling purple rose into the air.

She felt the hum of the magic vibrate through her for a fleeting moment.  _Damn_ , did she wish a bolt of lightning would crash through the chamber and strike her dead where she stood.

From the wizards standing to her right, she heard a grumpy whisper. "Why do  _you_  get top billing?"

Antonin's shoulders shook in a silent chuckle as he replied to Thorfinn in a quiet tumble of words. "Alphabetical order, I would assume."

"Who speaks as witness to this union?"

To his credit, Draco seemed to have trouble finding his voice before he managed, "Draco Lucius Malfoy."

Another wisp, followed by a fourth and final one—she imagined Voldemort was signing himself as the officiate presiding over the rite. A responding hum rolled through each person in the room.

Hermione squeezed her eyes shut as he closed the scroll and sealed it. Again, she thought she might as well be dead, as this was already the second time in her nineteen years that her life, as she'd known it, had ended.

The sound of movement from the front of the chamber drew her attention and she reluctantly opened her eyes. Voldemort stood and was rounding the Minister's bench to proceed across the dais toward the unhappily wed trio.

Silver glinted from an ornately crafted box he carried between his pale, bony hands.

"Antonin, Thorfinn, step forward," he said as he drew close to Hermione.

She tried to repress a shudder as her grooms walked over to stand on either side of her. Well, she supposed it was at least a relief to see both of their handsome faces twisted in expressions that showed their displeasure with the situation. Apparently, she wasn't the only  _prisoner_  in this.

She'd also spend a night in the arms of Dolores Umbridge before admitting aloud that Thorfinn Rowle and Antonin Dolohov were, indeed,  _quite_  handsome. However, as she was most assuredly stuck, there was no point in  _not_  calling a spade a spade.

Voldemort opened the box and withdrew a pendant. A large, tear-drop shaped red crystal housed in intricate silver lace work hung from a short, but weighty chain of the same metal.

He held it out toward the dark-haired wizard. "Antonin, if you would place this on your bride. Thorfinn, do assist by getting that rat's nest out of the way for him."

The entire situation had become so surreal, so quick, that Hermione actually felt a little lightheaded. She was sure that was why the way Thorfinn rolled his eyes before moving behind her to scoop her hair out of the way with his large hands had her ready to burst out laughing.

Then, again, perhaps she'd just finally gone around the bend.

As Antonin reached around her neck to clasp the necklace she sneaked a glance up at his face. Once more, he was avoiding looking at her. None of them were happy with this, by any stretch of the imagination, even so this was not quite the behavior she expected of the man she'd once so feared.

He stepped back again, and Thorfinn dropped her hair back into place. Then, Voldemort turned to her with the box, two identical pendants still inside.

For several heartbeats, she only stood there, staring at them. Did he honestly mean for her to—?

"Place them on your grooms of your own volition, or I will  _make_ you, Hermione."

With a shuddering sigh, and her stomach doing somersaults, she lifted the first pendant from the box. Closing her eyes, she pivoted on her heel to face the first nearest physical presence.

She opened her eyes to find Thorfinn before her. Squaring her jaw, and rolling her shoulders back, she gave her head a sobering shake. Yes, it was amusing to her that he clearly hated their predicament . . . but it was also a sharp reminder that  _she_  hated it, too.

Unclasping the chain, she closed the distance between them. She stood on her toes, trying very hard not to lean into him as she reached around his neck.

Thorfinn hated to admit that he found her struggle amusing. Biting his lip to hold in a laugh at her expense, he cleared his throat. "I could lean down, if that would make this easier for you, Princess."

Scowling, but emboldened by his smug attitude—and really, what did she have to lose?—Hermione dropped her arms and lowered her heels back to the floor. Backpedaling a single step, she said, "Kneel down."

His dark-gold brows shooting up, he blinked at her a few times in surprise. "Excuse me?"

With a blank expression, she shrugged. "You heard me Rowle; you want to make this easier for me? On. Your. Knees."

His nostrils flared and his features pinched as he held her gaze. He didn't know if her attempt to order him about made him hate her more, or intrigued him . . . . Just a little.

Blue eyes narrowing, he watched her steadily as he instead reached out, moving faster than she could react. Slipping his hands under her arms, he lifted her from the floor so they were eye-level.

Her clearly irate responding facial expression nearly made him burst out laughing, but he managed kept his reaction in check.

She glanced toward her dangling feet. "Thorfinn Rowle, you put me down this  _instant_!"

"No. You wanted my assistance, I'm  _assisting_." When his words were met with a renewed glare from his new  _wife_ , he shrugged easily, despite her weight in his hands. "It's going to take a little more than a snappy command to get me on my knees, Princess."

Her lips pulled back from her teeth in a frightening grimace that—as with being ordered about—he found just a bit intriguing. Yet, even as she looked ready to snarl at him like some angry feline, she reached out, slipping her hands beneath his long hair to clasp the pendant around his neck.

Tipping his head to one side, his brows lifted in an eloquent manner that well replaced him opening his mouth to say  _Now, was that so hard?_ He set her down on her feet and simply held her gaze for a moment before stepping back from her, again.

Shocked at the unexpected way that she suddenly needed to remind herself to breathe, Hermione inhaled sharply, exhaling only as she turned back toward the box waiting in Voldemort's hands. She ignored what the others in the room might've made of the interaction.

Withdrawing the second pendant, she shifted to face Antonin Dolohov. And realized he was nearly as tall as that other trouble-maker she was now ritually bound to. He merely stared back at her in wait.

She scowled, speaking through clenched teeth. "Are  _you_  going to give me a difficult time, too?"

His brows shooting up in surprise, Antonin realized he so often forgot how imposing he was to others. Shaking his head, he offered a poor attempt at a comforting smile and bent toward her—just enough that she would not have to struggle.

A little unsettled by the courtesy shown her by this man who'd once tried to kill her—and had nearly succeeded—Hermione took a moment to collect herself before she stepped closer to him. Holding her head high, she reached around his neck, the end of his dark hair surprisingly soft as they brushed against her hands.

Clasping the pendant, she had all she could do not to jump back from him.

"I know they're not as traditional as wedding rings." As Voldemort spoke, he closed the silver box . . . and as he closed the silver box, the young witch and her grooms were met with a sudden searing against the skin around their necks. "But they'll serve their purpose."

Hermione clutched at the chain of her necklace, yet her fingers only closed on her own, heated skin. "What  _is_ this?!"

She looked to Thorfinn and Antonin, in turn. They had both reacted the same way. As their fingers scrambled at the necks of their robes, she noticed the thick lines  _etched_  against their throats.

Thunderstruck by the implication, she tipped her head back, her neck bared by the style of her dress robes. "Look," she said, drawing their attention as she pointed to her own throat. "They're _in_  our skin!"

Both wizards drew closer to her, and she did not, in such a moment, have the presence of mind to backpedal away from them. Thorfinn took hold of her chin tilting her head as Antonin cupped her shoulder to steady her. In place of the physical necklace was a mark, much like a tattoo, of the enchanted piece of jewelry.

Exchanging a look that was equal parts concerned and angry, as they straightened to their full height, they turned their gazes to Hermione. Each tugged down the neck of their robes, exposing identical marks.

She felt a knot in her throat and swallowed hard. Blinking rapidly a few times, she nodded, trying to ignore the unpleasant roiling in the pit of her stomach.

"My Lord," Antonin said—Thorfinn gratefully allowed him to address this, as he didn't think he could form words just now without exploding in anger. "I don't understand. Are  _we_  being punished?"

"Oh, Antonin, no, no. Of course not." Voldemort actually looked thoughtful as he considered his words. "These are simply a way to enable you to become better acquainted with your circumstances while eliminating unnecessary complications."

"In what way?"

Both of her grooms turned toward Hermione at the sheer wrath in her tone. Her cheeks were dusted pink and the delicate skin beneath her widened eyes crinkled, her lips pursed in a menacing line. They each realized how lucky they were that she didn't have a wand.

Voldemort actually  _smiled_ at the enraged witch. "As I stated in Azkaban, your reputation proceeds you. You will be compelled to  _avoid_  inflicting harm on yourself, intentionally."

Her angry expression only tightened further at that. There went any hopes of quietly offing herself the first chance she got.

"And, to give you all a chance to become accustomed to one another . . . . You will not be able to leave the grounds of your marital home without the company of one of your husbands." He didn't allow her time to utter a protest as he directed his next sentence to Thorfinn and Antonin. "You will be permitted to leave, should I have need of you, but will be compelled to return as soon as you've completed your assigned task."

"We're under house arrest! Fan- _bloody_ -tastic! This is  _your_  boss. I hope you two are  _quite_  pleased with yourselves, assisting in his rise to power!"

Draco, unable to do anything more than watch from a distance all the while, had all he could do to hold in laughter at his former classmate's response. Her hands were balled into shaking fists, all that was missing was her stamping a heel against the floor. Losing everything had only seemed to make her even more like the spirited witch he recalled from Hogwarts.

"So dramatic, Miss Granger . . . Oh, forgive me, Mrs.  _Dolohov-Rowle_."

But Thorfinn and Antonin didn't quite seem to hear their Lord as they turned to face Hermione. "Seriously?" Thorfinn asked, his head shaking and his hands spread wide. "This is _our_  fault, now?"

"Well, I know it isn't mine!  _I_ didn't back the man  _forcing_  marriages!"

Antonin put his hands up in a placating gesture. "All right, everyone just take a bloody  _breath_!"

When they turned to look at the dark-haired wizard, he nodded—not at all subtly—toward Voldemort. All three turned to pin the Dark Lord with unhappy gazes, though Hermione was the only one who made no attempt to hide her feelings.

"Thank you, Antonin," Voldemort said, his tone syrupy sweet in that way that made the lone witch in the room cringe. "Do not think of this as anything so permanent. These are temporary restrictions, only in place until you three have come to accept your situation."

"You mean until we start exhibiting signs of Stockholm Syndrome."

Voldemort arched a non-existent brow. Thorfinn and Antonin turned to face her, once more.

"What?" her wizards asked as one.

She rolled her eyes as an exasperated breath escaped her lips. "It's a phenomenon in which a person begins to sympathize with their captor, as a psychological survival tactic."

"Wait, I'm familiar with it. I thought I only applied to kidnapping victims," Antonin said, with a thoughtful expression.

Thorfinn's lips twitched side-to-side as he considered that. "No, no, I think it also applies to hostage situations."

Hermione's brows shot up as she looked from one to the other. Were they really trying to find a way to argue against her point on this? "Oh, you know, I am just so bloody sick of both of you and we've only been married for _ten minutes_!"

"My Lord?" Draco's voice cut through the room, and Hermione could never recall being so relieved in all her life to hear a Malfoy speak.

Voldemort turned his attention to the pale-haired young man. "Yes, Draco?"

"Well," Draco said as he finally crossed the room, though, with the displeased expressions on the faces of the married trio, he sort of wished he'd kept quiet, now. "The ceremony is complete, and you are being kept from important business, I'm sure. I will see them to the Floo stations, if you wish."

Nodding, Voldemort only then seemed to realize the wedding had gotten a bit out of hand. It had been long over, after all, he'd simply been basking in the Mudblood's discomfort. Of course, his followers were also in a measure of discomfort, but they would come to their senses, soon enough. He knew where their loyalties lie.

"Yes, thank you, Draco." Returning his attention to the three gathered in front of him, he said, "I will visit to assess your progress when I'm able."

The assembled Death Eaters bowed deeply as Voldemort swept from the Wizengamot chamber. Hermione very much wanted to give all three of them a good smack.

After the door closed, however, she said, "Thank you, Draco, I don't think I could've taken his presence a moment longer."

Draco gave a shrug and a nod, avoiding getting too close to her as he started toward the doors and waved for them to follow. He didn't want to give either of her new husbands reason to think he was trying anything funny to get on the fiery witch's good side.

"So . . . ." She began as they walked through and out into the winding corridors of the Ministry. "Where, precisely, is this  _marital home_  in which we're to be incarcerated?"

"Selwyn Hall."

Her brows shot up. "And what does the Selwyn family have to say about this?"

"Not much, I'd imagine," Thorfinn said with a shrug. "They recently died out. Corvus Selwyn died at the Battle of Hogwarts."

"Really?"  _Oh._  "Well, now at least something makes sense."

The off-handed comment made Antonin curious. "How so?"

The witch shrugged. "During the War, Dolores Umbridge claimed she had a family heirloom that had been property of the Selwyn line. Now, of course, knowing the origin of the item, I knew perfectly well that she was lying. I could never figure out if she was lying to cover how she got it, or to bolster her claims of just how  _pure_  her pure-blood heritage is. Of course, I'll probably never know which one, but at least now I get why she could lie so freely about a familial connection—because there  _were_  no living Selwyns to dispute it, aside from the one you mentioned, who was clearly indisposed elsewhere."

Her husbands exchanged a glance over the top of her head as they neared the Ministry's extensive Floo Network station. Even angry and having her death wish squashed flat, her intellect put most elder pure-blood witches and wizards to shame.

The three of them stood about before the station for a moment, fidgeting for no real reason. Well, other than the fact that none of them really wanted to set foot in Selwyn Hall, knowing there was no telling when they'd be permitted to leave, again. Finally, Thorfinn—with a shake of his head and a squaring of his broad shoulders—stepped through. Antonin hung back, looking to Hermione and making an  _after you_  gesture.

Hermione thanked Draco, again, and bid him a farewell, as she entered the Floo. Once more, there was that sympathetic look flitting across his features as she was whisked to her new home in a wash of green flames.

On the other side, she nearly collided with a stock-still Thorfinn. When she steadied herself, she saw precisely what had him frozen. The parlor of the Hall was a vast room, almost terrifying in its grandeur; black velvet furnishings, rich carpets of dark-crimson, finely polished wood and gleaming gold accents seemed to fill every corner. Antonin piled out behind her, only to be equally stuck as he stared about their  _new_  home.

"Okay, I'll say it." Hermione swallowed hard and nodded. "There  _are_  worse places to be imprisoned."

Thorfinn fixed her with a withering glare and Antonin bit his lip to hold in a chuckle.

She ignored them both as she caught movement from the corner of her eye. Turning toward the motion, she was beside herself to see the little creature toddle through the grand room toward them.

Hermione Granger, once champion of rights for  _all_  subjugated species . . . . And she'd been given a house elf.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter Three**

Too much had happened in the last hour of her life that Hermione needed to center herself. She needed to breathe and bury herself in something safe and familiar, and  _nothing_  about the two wizards gaping at the parlor right along with her was either of those things. Nothing about this grand, beautiful, and mildly terrifying manor house was either of those things.

Except, if perhaps . . . .

"Hello," she said to the elf as the little creature reached them. "And your name is?"

"Caster, Mistress."

"Oh, well . . . ." She cleared her throat, reminding herself that a pleasantry such as  _nice to meet you_ might not be well received. Deciding to jump right into her thought, she asked, "Caster, is there a library in this house?"

Caster's little face pinched. "O' course there is!"

"Will you show me where it is?"

"No."

Hermione was so caught off-guard by the refusal, she actually stood a little straighter. "No?" She swore she could sense the confusion of the Death Eaters on either side of her at the elf's behavior.

With a shake of his little, wrinkly head, he turned apologetic eyes on her. "Mistress is in need of a warm bath and rest, library can wait. Come along, Caster will take Mistress to her rooms."

 _A warm bath?_  It had been so long since Hermione'd had that simple luxury that the thought, alone, made her aware of how sore her muscles and joints were from her incarceration. It made painfully clear to her how long it had been since she could simply say she wasn't cold.

Her shoulders slumped a little and she found herself fighting unexpected tears. She dropped her hand into the house elf's waiting fingers and let him tug her along through the parlor.

Yet, at the wide entryway, she paused. Turning toward the wizards still by the fireplace, she saw them in some hushed discussion. Their expressions were troubled and she could only hope that meant they truly  _were_ as uncomfortable with this situation as she was. It's wasn't much of common ground, but it was something.

"Excuse me, um, husbands?"

Antonin looked at her, his brows high on his forehead at how she'd addressed them. Thorfinn responded by inhaling deeply through his nostrils as he rolled his eyes, his jaw squaring as he granted her his attention.

Hermione rolled her shoulders and pulled herself up to her full height—which, of course, was meager compared to the two of them, but she would not let a mean look from Thorfinn Rowle cow her. "I understand this is supposed to be a wedding night, but I have no intention of crawling into bed with either one of you. So, I would like to know if either of you have plans on forcing me into any unsavory acts tonight."

To his credit, Antonin Dolohov actually looked a bit mortified by the inquiry. "Of course not!"

Thorfinn, however, seemed to take the witch's condescending assumption as a challenge. He tipped his head to one side as he held her gaze and folded his arms across his chest. "If I was planning on any such thing, why in the name of Merlin do you think I'd do you the courtesy of warning you?"

Slipping her hand from Caster's, she took a few steps back into the room, her fingers curled into fists at her sides. "So that I can at least brace myself for it, you big  _lumbering_ Viking!"

"I do  _not_  lumber!"

Antonin winced in the background, rubbing his suddenly aching forehead with the tips of his fingers.

"I warn you, Thorfinn Rowle, I may not have a wand, but I do not need  _magic_ to make your life a living hell."

A surprised chuckle bubbled out of the golden-haired wizard as he nodded. But the mirthful sound died quickly as his expression chilled. "Oh, believe me, Princess, being stuck with _you_ for the foreseeable future has already done that for you!"

Her chestnut eyes narrowed as she exhaled sharply through her nostrils, before she collected herself. "You clearly have no idea who you're dealing with."

She spun on her heel, placing her hand back into Caster's and striding from the room.

"Well," Antonin said, letting out a miserable sigh as he nodded. "You two certainly bring out the best in each other."

"Dolohov, I swear, do  _not_ start with me, right now." Thorfinn dropped himself into one of the many plush settees scattered artfully through the too-large parlor. Bracing an elbow on his knee, he raked his fingers through his hair.

"What good is raging at the witch we're trapped with going to do?" Wand or no wand, an angry witch was not a thing to be taken lightly—especially not one rumored to be able to perform  _wandless_  magic. Antonin did not want to be in the room if, and when, Thorfinn poked the little magical bear too hard. "She's no more responsible for this mess than we are."

Thorfinn turned wide eyes toward the dark-haired wizard. "So I should go rage at the Dark Lord is what you're saying? You _are_  trying to kill me, aren't you?"

Dropping himself into an armchair arranged across from the settee, Antonin shook his head and uttered a tired sigh. "I am trying to keep the peace, an effort which you seem to be sabotaging with minimal effort."

"You, keep the peace? Oh, that  _is_  a good one. You do realize that—"

"Masters?"

Both wizards looked up at the squeaky female voice. A second house elf lingered shyly in the entryway.

She shuffled forward in her tatty pillow case-dress. "Bridy does not mean to interrupt."

"How many elves does Selwyn Hall have?" Thorfinn asked, more to Antonin than Bridy, but the little thing toddled closer to answer, anyway.

"Bridy and Cas'er serve the Hall's masters. There was just Cas'er, but Dark Lord said house was too big for one elf to manage."

Antonin leaned toward the other wizard just a bit, his voice dropping to a whisper. "Do we want to know where he just so happened to scrounge up a spare house elf?"

"Probably not."

"If Masters are no' busy, Bridy is to show you the house."

Exchanging a quick glance, they each gave a nod and a shrug. Thorfinn and Antonin stood for the elf to lead the way.

"As I was saying," the younger man said as they walked. "Trying to keep any sort of peace in  _this_  house is going to be a waste of your time and energy. She hates you. She's always going to hate you."

As true as it was—as much of a reality as that was—Antonin still had to hold back a wince. He'd known that from how quick she was to hunt him down on the battlefield. The moment their eyes had locked across the chaos, Hermione Granger made a bee line for him, ducking curses, fluidly sidestepping attack spells, and hexing the random combatant who happened across her path, blocking her way.

If he'd thought her formidable when she'd been the first person to survive a direct hit from his personally crafted and perfected curse, that inkling had  _nothing_  on what he'd felt in that moment of watching her storm toward him.

He nodded. "If that is so, it won't be for lack of me trying to change it."

* * *

Hermione stood in the corridor, oblivious to the elf tugging at her arm as she stared at the half-dozen doorways he'd just indicated with a sweep of his arms as her _rooms_. He'd said exactly that down in the parlor, but—just as with Voldemort mentioning her  _grooms_  that first time 'round—she'd thought she must've misheard him.

There was a bizarre, chilled tumbling in her stomach. Her living situation had changed so dramatically in the space of an hour—an  _hour_ —that she began to question if this was all really happening. Perhaps she'd taken ill and was in her cell, still, imagining this entire sequence of events!

How odd that  _that_  certainly felt far more likely a reality than that she was really standing here, _her_  house elf pulling on her hand.

"This way to Mistress' wardrobe."

His squeaky voice finally drawing her from her reverie, Hermione met his enormous, dark-green eyes. "Oh, yes," she said with a nod and a forced grin. "Sorry."

Caster led her past two closed doors, and into an open archway. He released the witch's hand and toddled his way across to a chest of drawers.

She blinked hard a few times as she stared around the room. The array of gowns and garments on hangers—all black, and all silk or satin from the soft gleam of the material—the trunks and chests, the vanity table decked out with all manner of wizarding cosmetic products and exquisitely crafted perfume bottles. At least two of the dressers were covered in antique jewelry boxes.

"Were these all left her by the previous occupants?" she asked with wide eyes, before forcing a gulp down her throat.

"The pretties are," Caster said, nodding toward the boxes as he fished about in the drawers. "The dressings and underthings are all new for Mistress."

This was all for  _her_? Hermione felt a twinge of sickness in the pit of her stomach, again. Were she to come into such lovely things under different circumstances, she might quite love to own every single item, but these were purchased for her in her role as Hermione Dolohov-Rowle, new Mistress of Selwyn Hall.

Lone survivor of Dumbledore's Army, and trophy upon Voldemort's repulsive mantle.

Shaking her head, she tried to clear it of her troubled thoughts. Another bout of survivor's guilt was not going to do her any good.

And the thought of Voldemort possibly having purchased these things for her, to make her predicament that much more uncomfortable for her, only twisted up her stomach further. "Who brought all of this to Selwyn Hall for me, Caster?"

"Caster does not know the wizard's name. Wizard told Caster it was his duty from Dark Lord."

So it wasn't Voldemort, or either of her husbands who'd made the purchases. Well, there was some comfort in that, she supposed . . . though, some mystery wizard knowing her sizes was a bit disconcerting, all on its own.

Caster returned to her, holding a dressing gown, knickers, and a nightdress out for her inspection. "These are to Mistress' liking?"

She didn't even bother really looking at them. "Sure," she said with a nod and an exasperated breath.

Moments, and two closed doors later, Caster opened the door to her private bathroom.

A wash of pleasant warmth and the delicious scent of a log fire greeted her. Her eyes drifted closed seemingly of their own volition as she stepped into the room. Opening them, she found, indeed, a fireplace with small, steady flames dancing inside. Before the hearth were a pair of cottony black slippers, and a plush bathrobe tossed idly over an armchair, angled so that it faced both the fire, and one of the room's breathtaking stained glass windows.

Those windows were set at intervals, splashing the black and white pearl tiles of the room with blooms and swirls of gorgeous color here and there. She let out a delighted breath as she turned toward the circular, in-ground tub. May she never question wizarding architecture again as long as she lived.

Caster set her items on a marble shelf beneath one of the windows and excused himself from the room.

Blinking rapidly a few times, Hermione again shook her head before looking about her bathroom, once more. Voldemort had simply snatched up an unused property and tossed them into it to keep them contained. He probably couldn't care less how pretty this place was, nor how much it might seem like an attempt to make her circumstances palatable. A gilded cage was still a cage, and  _that_  was all that mattered to him.

After her bath—the bubbles of which she could tell smelled of lavender and honeysuckle from here—she would ask Caster if among her rooms, she had any place she could sleep. Certainly, the elf was likely still confused by her wish to spend her wedding night  _apart_  from her husband _s_ , but that was okay. There was nothing about this situation that wasn't confusing for her, as well.

Undressing, she let everything fall to the floor where she stood and stepped out of her satin slippers. She knelt down and reached into the water, testing the temperature. Her eyes drifted closed all over again as she let out a hissing breath. It was  _perfect_.

Biting her lip to hold in a content sigh, she slid into the tub. For several moments, she simply sat in the water, her head back and her eyes closed, still, as she let the warmth seep into her weary bones.

"A little slice of heaven in the heart of Hell," she said with a small laugh.

She shifted back, dipping her wild hair into the water, soaking it to her scalp and then sitting up again. As she moved, amongst the cascade of warm, sweetly scented droplets rolling down her back, she swore for a second there . . . .

Hermione opened her eyes wide to dart her gaze about the room. Forcing a breath, she leaned her back against the side of the tub and stared out at the space around her.

It had to be her overwrought imagination just now, but she was certain that for a fleeting second, she'd felt the gentle sweep of fingertips buried beneath the flow of water over her skin.

* * *

"This room is for Master Ant'in."

Thorfinn bit his lip to hold in a chuckle at the way the other Death Eater hissed out an exasperated breath and pinched between his eyes with thumb and forefinger.

"For the fourth time, Bridy, it's Antonin."

Bridy turned fearful eyes on her new master as she stood in the doorway. "Bridy is very sorry, Master Ant-o-nin. Bridy has some trou'le with syll . . . syll—"

"Syllables?" Thorfinn offered with a shake of his head.

She nodded. "Many thanks, Master Thorn."

Antonin cast the other wizard a look.

Thorfinn shrugged. "I kind of like it."

"Bridy was s'ruck on her head once very hard by last master," the little thing said, curling her own long-fingered hand into a fist and pressing her knuckles down against the top of her skull in example. "It gave Bridy trou'le with words, some'imes."

Both men winced at that.

"Princess is going to have a field day with this," Thorfinn said, his head shaking, once more, as he imagined the uppity witch reacting as though the past injury to the elf was somehow _their_  fault.

"Fine." Antonin gave a tightlipped smile—a defective elf. The poor thing should be retired, not assisting management of a place this size, but if any of them tried to present their elves with clothes, the Dark Lord would probably take the slight as an insult. "However you can address me will do, Bridy."

Again, she nodded. "Many thanks, Master Ant'in." Bridy gestured into the room, redirecting their attention to the space as she walked in, entirely. "Master Ant'in's hobby room."

Antonin stepped into the lavish room . . . . It wasn't _quite_  a study, with the apothecary table in one corner, the shelves stacked with books on gardening and horticulture, and a door that he could see from here led out into the gardens. The armchair faced a study table, already piled with a few texts.

As the dark-haired wizard gaped around at his private space, Bridy strode from the room, gesturing for Thorfinn to follow her.

"Master Thorn's space is this way. La'er, Bridy will show both masters to their rooms."

Thorfinn puffed out his cheeks, glancing about as he was led through the massive first floor, once again. He knew exactly what the Dark Lord was up to. Well, no, not  _exactly_ , after all, he thought anyone who knew what went on it that wizard's head was probably madder than a Lovegood.

He had a pretty good idea, based on what was in Doholov's hobby room, and it would be confirmed or disproven when he saw what was in his  _own_ designated hobby room. The Dark Lord meant to keep them occupied just enough that their polite and pampered incarceration did not drive them mad.

Bridy opened a door and stepped in. "This way, Master Thorn."

Nodding, he followed, surprised to find himself in a large and tidy, but nearly-bare sitting room. A currently unlit fireplace, a few armchairs, and a liquor cabinet in one corner were the only notable things . . . . Those, and the collection of books atop the cabinet, which he crossed the room to examine.

His brows drew upward as he ran his fingertips across the spines of volumes about obscure and long-forgotten charms and combative curses.

Now the collection of random breakable knick-knacks scattered about the room made sense. "This space is so I have a place to practice what's in these books, and throw a fits as I so deem necessary when I make errors, isn't it?"

Bridy fidgeted, looking a little uncomfortable—as though she thought she was being dishonest with her master. "Dark Lord said tha's why Bridy's not to ligh' the fireplace. Master Thorn will see to i', himself, when he gets antsy 'nough, he said."

Sucking his teeth, Thorfinn nodded as he looked around the space, again. Sure, set something on fire once, or twice—or five times, whatever—and one got themselves a reputation.

Well, at least he had a place to come to whenever that feisty brat of a witch he'd been forced to wed wound him up, so there was less chance of him cursing  _her._ Maybe that was why the Dark Lord had granted them these hobby spaces, he thought, not to occupy them, so much as to keep them from killing one another.

He nodded again, thoughtfully, as he picked up the first book to thumb through the pages. That actually wasn't a bad plan.

* * *

Dinner that evening had been in a painful silence. They each ate quickly and excused themselves from the table. Hermione'd thought it a shame that this was not even a group to discuss how good the food had been so the elves might at least know they'd done well—and the meal had been delicious. But then, her taste buds might've simply been screaming with joy for anything more flavorful than the cold, nutrient-rich mush the protected prisoners had been served the last eight months.

She'd retreated to the library—though she was also given a hobby room with all manner of charts and chalkboards for working out problems and solving equations—after the meal. Her husbands had each gone off to do their own thing; she couldn't care less what those things were, as long as they left her in peace.

As she neared one of the open crystalline windows of the library, movement outside had caught her attention from the corner of her eye. Glancing out, she immediately jumped back from view.

Well, that was just silly, there was no way the man had seen her. She had only reacted so because it was Antonin Dolohov out there. Swallowing hard, she closed her book and set it aside before leaning toward the window again to peek outside.

Down in the untended gardens, the dark-haired wizard was examining some seemingly wild-growing blossoms. Dusk had fallen, and he held his illuminated wand in one hand. Without that soft pinpoint of light, she never would have been able to make out the delicate touches he pressed to the petals with the fingers of his free hand.

He was being so . . .  _gentle_.

Hermione furrowed her brow, feeling uncomfortable suddenly—like she was intruding on some deeply private and sacred moment.

Shaking her head, she turned away from the window and retrieved her book. To throw herself back into her reading was a joy, especially if it meant she could put off trying to reconcile her memories of that imposing wizard trying to kill her and her friends . . . with the man she'd just witnessed treating fragile lifeforms such as flowers with such assured kindness and concern.

All three were grateful that their spaces of the enormous house had bedrooms. Hermione thought this might've been an oversight on Voldemort's part—that and his little playthings having free will when his back was turned—that the cage he'd thrown them in had so many levels and compartments that she was sure they could go days without seeing one another if they all  _really_  tried.

* * *

She was pulled from sleep sometime in the wee hours of the morning. The sky was still dark outside her windows, and she blinked to clear her bleary eyes in the sparsely illuminated room.

Blinking hard as she shook her head, she tried to pinpoint what had awoken her.

Then she heard it. A terrible, gut-wrenching sobbing that seemed to tear through the walls and pierce her heart.

Clamping a hand over her mouth to cover a panicked breath, she hurried out of bed. Hermione stuffed her feet into her slippers and tugged on her dressing gown.

She spared a moment to collect herself, her hand dropping to her side as she took a few deep breaths. Yet, the moment she started for the door, she heard it again. That terrible sound! _Oh_ , it brought tears to her eyes and made a fist close around her heart.

Outside her door, she hurried to the landing of the curving double staircase that led down to the first floor, and branched up to the third. Of course, she also nearly collided with her husbands as they hurried from their own rooms.

Thorfinn, much to her horror, was bare from the waist up and appeared to be still in the process of tugging on a pair of black silk pyjama bottoms.

He met the flustered gazes of his house-mates with wide eyes. "What?"

"Were you  _naked_?" the witch demanded in a hissing whisper.

His eyes rolling, he set his jaw. "Well, I think we  _both_  like that it's not any of your concern, but yes. I sleep in the nude. Happy?"

Hermione's face scrunched in a soured expression. "Very little about you makes me  _happy,_  Thorfinn Rowle."

"Do you two never stop?" Antonin was tired, and irritated, and he was bloody well not going to put up with their juvenile nonsense—and for more reasons than simply because it made him feel his age in a way he'd never thought possible, before.

She turned a venomous gaze on him in the darkness. "You want some, too? I'm sure if you give me a moment, I could dig up myriad unpleasant things to say to you, too."

"I'm sure you could, but shouldn't we really be concerned with—" Antonin's words were cut short by that terrible sobbing.

Hermione hated that she had to bite the inside of her lip to keep in a cry. It was awful and bizarre how the sound cut right through her like that.

"What _is_  that?" Thorfinn asked, his voice hushed. She glanced at him to see he, too, looked quite rattled . . . as did Antonin.

Ghosts were commonplace in the Wizarding world. That they were all so unsettled by this did  _not_  bode well.

"It's Master Augustin."

The trio jumped a little as they spun to face the house-elf. Caster stood behind them, looking as though he'd been pulled from sleep, himself.

"Who's that? A ghost?"

He nodded to his mistress' question. "But Master Augustin is . . .  _different_. Mistress should not fear. Keeps to the cellars, he does."

She couldn't think on what he meant by  _different_ —though whatever that difference was probably explained why his cries were so keenly felt by the Hall's living occupants. "I don't understand, who is he?"

Caster rubbed a fist against his eye, obviously fighting a yawn before he responded. "Selwyn Hall's first master," he said, the poor thing was so tired, he honestly sounded a bit disinterested—that, or he was so accustomed to the story, and the specter's powerful sobbing, that it no longer affected him.

Again the sound echoed through the house and Hermione had all she could do not to cringe backward against one of the wizards with her.

"Why on earth is he crying like this?"

Caster lifted his gaze to Antonin's in the darkness. "Rumor has it Master Augustin's bride killed him on their wedding night. Aurors never proved it, though. Master's been heard to do this ever since."

"He's been crying for  _centuries_ ," Hermione said in a humbled whisper; suddenly her circumstances didn't seem so awful. That was  _it_ , she was determined. Tomorrow, she would start researching and find a way to free Augustin Selwyn from his suffering.

There, she had a task, now! Perhaps even something to make her days worth living, at least for a little while.

"Masters and Mistress should get back to bed," Caster said as he turned away and started toddling back to the servants' quarters. "Master Augustin never comes out of the cellars, anyway. First master will quiet down, soon."

Nodding, Hermione, trying to get far from that wretched sound, spun away from the first floor, only to collide with the half-naked Viking of a wizard.

He caught her by her shoulders reflexively before she could fall on her arse. She found herself staring up at him for a heartbeat or two, before she shrugged out of his grasp, only to backpedal and bump into something. Looking over her shoulder, it seemed just her luck that Antonin Dolohov  _was_  the something she'd bumped into, appearing to try to hold in some private amusement as he met her gaze.

Scrambling out from between them, she shook her finger at them in anger. But try as she might, no words would form on her tongue. Her eyes narrowed and she granted them both a scathing look before she pivoted on her heel and stomped off to her room.

For a moment, the wizards stood there, watching her storm along.

"I actually think I get what made her so angry  _that_  time."

Snorting out a tired chuckle at the younger man's words, Antonin simply turned in the direction of his bedroom and walked away.

* * *

Back inside her room, the door closed and locked behind her, Hermione ran her hands over face and throat as she tried to collect herself. She hadn't wanted to know what it felt like to touch Thorfinn Rowle's bare chest . . . or feel the solid frame of Antonin Dolohov against her back. No, no,  _definitely_ not!

Swallowing hard, she put it all out of her head as best she could and returned to her bed. She refused to give herself reason to soak in a cold bath because of  _those_  two.

It seemed a long while of tossing and turning before she drifted off. But the sobbing had quieted, and she was grateful for that. She thought she had even managed a few minutes of sleep before her eyes popped open, once more.

Everything was indistinct, hazy. She was still half-asleep, she thought. She scanned her room, feeling something odd in the air, though she couldn't be certain what.

Until she saw him.

Lingering in the open doorway—the door which she'd _locked_ —was a tall man, lean, and dark-haired. His eyes were so blue it was almost painful; she was surprised she could tell their color across the night-darkened room.

"Hello," he said simply.

Hermione was certain she must be disoriented, because didn't even rise from the bed, she only echoed the word.

"May I come in?"

Again, she couldn't be certain why she was responding as she was, but she nodded. She even shifted over to make room for him.

Perhaps because she felt no sense of fear or danger from him. Or because she was dreaming? That was entirely possible, after all, how long had it been since she'd slept in a real bed?

Accepting her invitation, he entered the room and sat on the bed. His back against the headboard, he crossed his long legs at the ankles, a hand on her to guide her so that she pillowed her head against his thigh.

"Who are you?" she asked, even as her chestnut eyes drifted closed.

A half-smile plucking one corner of his mouth upward, he shook his head. Stroking her hair with gentle fingertips, he answered, but she was already asleep.

Despite that his response had fallen on deaf ears, that half-smile widened a little as he continued, "I won't let them harm you."


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter Four**

Hermione Dolohov-Rowle was positively beaming at breakfast the next morning. Humming lightly under her breath, she tipped her head this way and that in time with the tune as she buttered her toast.

Her husbands, both very confused by the witch's change in demeanor, exchanged a bewildered look.

Thorfinn leaned across the table, his voice dropped low so she wouldn't hear him. "Did you sneak into her room last night and cause this?"

Antonin's dark eyes shot wide at the accusation. "No. Here I wondered if maybe it was you."

"Why would I ask you if _I_  was responsible?"

Shrugging, Antonin said, "To throw suspicion off yourself?" He eyed the cheery witch once more as he continued, "After all, this is a relatively terrifying development."

His jaw squaring as he thought, Thorfinn picked carefully at his food with his fork. "Princess?"

Her shoulders drooped a little and she let out a sigh—well, clearly she wasn't  _that_ changed. "Yes, lumbering Viking?"

The blond wizard bit the inside of his lower lip for a moment, holding in a low growl. "Did you happen to convince the house elves to poison our food or coffee?"

Caught off-guard by the question, she finally lifted her gaze from her plate to meet his, a puzzled expression playing across her features. "No," she said with a small laugh. "Why would you ask?"

Thorfinn stood and leaned forward, bracing his palms on the table as he peered into her face. He straightened up again and reclaimed his seat before replying. "Perhaps because you've been a right little terror since yesterday afternoon, and now you're . . . unsettlingly chipper."

Hermione shrugged and returned her attention to her breakfast. "I just had a very calming, peaceful dream last night, Viking. Nothing to get your knickers in a twist about, I assure you."

It really had been a lovely dream. She'd thought he was a ghost, at first, but he'd touched her, she'd fallen asleep with her head on his thigh. And when she'd woken this morning, she was alone, her door locked as it had been before he'd appeared; nothing in her room amiss, whatsoever.

It could only have been a dream, probably conjured by that horrible sobbing last night. But there had been something so comforting . . . a feeling of being protected that she hadn't known in . . . .  _God_ , she couldn't even think if she'd ever felt so cared for like that.

A tiny grin tugged the corners of her mouth upward as the wizards continued to watch her cautiously. "I suppose hardened murderers such as yourselves can't quite understand something like that."

"Don't you  _ever_  tire of making assumptions?"

She looked up again at that. Her gaze moved from Thorfinn's, to Antonin's, and then back. "Not really, no."

Only Antonin's quick grip on Thorfinn's shoulder kept the younger wizard from jumping to his feet, once more.

Biting back the sore inclination to turn the discussion into another shouting match, Thorfinn forced a breath out from between pursed lips. After a moment, he nodded to the other man.

Antonin eyed him a minute longer—gauging if Thorfinn really was going to let it go—before allowing his hand to drop back to the table.

"I wasn't going to hurt her," the younger wizard said, grousing. " _Maybe_ a mild stinging hex, but that's all."

Uttering a quiet groan, Antonin dropped his face into his hand.

Hermione shot him an unhappy look at the sound.

Well, wasn't _that_  fantastic? Here he was trying to keep things civil, but the glance she'd just given him spoke  _volumes._  She was just  _waiting_  for Antonin to give her reason to tear into him, too.

When that happened, he couldn't say for certain that she wouldn't be able to eventually provoke him into responding in kind.

After breakfast, Hermione secured herself in the library, trying to locate every book on the subject of ghosts and hauntings she could find. Ensconced happily in her world of pages and words, she spent the majority of her time there. She was curious about the parts of the house she'd not seen, yet, but exploration was for people who wanted to know more about their location and feel comfortable there.

With any luck, she would  _never_  change her mind on that.

Lunch and dinner went down the same path as breakfast had. Antonin found himself nursing a bottle of Fire Whiskey by the time it was late enough to turn in for the night.

* * *

The following three days passed in the same fashion. Hermione and Thorfinn bickered throughout every meal, the three of them found their own means to occupy their time that saw to them rarely crossing paths, and every night their sleep was disrupted by the unsettling sobs of the eternally miserable Augustin Selwyn.

Each night, after the sobs abated, a sleepy Hermione was greeted by that same pretty nocturnal specter. At a loss for how to explain him, she continued to tell herself she was only dreaming his existence. Her head resting on his leg, he would stroke her hair, brush his fingers along her throat or her cheek. Delicate exploring touches that went on a little longer, that became a little more familiar, each time, but always with some strange sort of reverence to the act.

Yet, every morning, the delighted mood the dreams left her in soured at the sight of the dark wizards she was forced to share meals with.

* * *

At dinner of their fifth day living in Selwyn Hall, Hermione and Thorfinn were at it  _again_ —they didn't even talk otherwise! How could they  _possibly_  find so much to argue about?

" _Enough_ ," Antonin said in a low, warning tone.

Thorfinn's mouth snapped shut and he turned to look at the other wizard. Finding Antonin Dolohov's face twisted in an expression of mingled exasperation and anger, the younger man immediately dropped his attention to his food.

He was not frightened of Antonin, but he was well aware from previous experience that they were too evenly matched. Any disagreement that would cause them to come to blows would not bode well for the structural integrity of the Hall. He didn't want to be the one responsible for digging Princess out of the rubble.

With the air of someone who'd been  _waiting_ , Hermione set down her utensils and turned her attention on Antonin. "Excuse me?"

The look Antonin gave her was  _so_ exasperated, it bordered on pleading. "I said enough. Enough with you two constantly at each other. Enough complaining. Just  _enough_."

"Why the  _bloody_  hell should I listen to you?"

"Why the bloody hell are you _always_  on about something?"

She let out a mirthless laugh at his question. "You're joking, yeah?" she asked, shaking her head. "I don't know, maybe it's because I'm living with two people who've previously tried to murder me. Maybe it's because Voldemort has it out for me, but won't just go ahead and kill me. Maybe it's because my existence is  _miserable_! Take. Your. Pick."

Antonin's teeth clenched as he held her gaze. He wanted to feel sympathy for her, but her easy reminders that she'd probably rather be _dead_  then sharing a meal with him were jarring.

That was when he realized . . . .

"Are you  _trying_ to push one of us into killing you?"

"Yes." Her chestnut eyes shot wide after the word fell from her lips.

A moment of silence wrapped around the table. She was acutely aware of both wizards watching her.

Dropping her gaze to her plate, she carefully removed her napkin from her lap and set it on the table. "Bridy, come take this please. I'm not hungry anymore."

As the elf bustled out to take her mistress' dishes, the witch rose from her seat and stalked out of the dining room.

After another few heartbeats of tense silence in her wake, Thorfinn said, "Well, nice to see your  _keep the peace_ plan is going so well."

Antonin pinned the younger man with a withering glare.

* * *

Hermione's nocturnal specter returned again, that night. She'd managed to at last sleep through Augustin Selwyn's terrible sobs, she realized, because when she opened her eyes in the dark of her room, her pretty nighttime companion lingered in the doorway.

She didn't wait for him to ask this time, shifting over to make space for him and moving to pillow her head on his thigh after he made himself comfortable.

A half-smile curving his lips, he brushed her wild hair out of the way to run the tips of his fingers gently along the shell of her ear.

"You seem sadder than usual, tonight," he said in that soft whisper of his.

"I can't help it." She shook her head against him, letting her eyes drift closed. "I'm trying, but I don't want to be here."

His fingers stilled. "Here, in this house?"

Once more, she shook her head, noting that he started stroking her skin again, his hand drifting toward her throat, only after she responded. "In this situation. In a life I have no control over."

He was silent for a long while, simply tracing along her neck and over her collar bones with gentle fingertips, again and again.

As she drifted back into sleep, he leaned down. She felt the press of his lips against her temple. "I understand how you feel, too well."

When she awoke the next morning—as always alone, her door locked, and nothing in her room amiss—she thought her dreamed up visitor had given her exactly the reason she'd imagined him, in the first place. Not because of her own sympathy for Selwyn Hall's first master, but because she simply wanted someone who could sympathize with _her_.

She very much doubted either of her husbands would ever be capable of any such thing.

* * *

The library was a bit chilly that day, prompting Hermione to bring her reading to the sun room. The light streaming through the crystalline glass, and the toasty fireplace were a perfect combination on a late-autumn day.

Only as she walked in and felt the soft, cozy warmth of the room, did she realize Christmas would be coming, soon. She doubted very much there would be any celebrating going on in  _this_ house.

As she neared the velvet chaise she'd pulled before the fireplace a few days ago, Hermione felt certain she was being watched. Closing the book, she forced a gulp down her throat.

Turning on her heel, she examined the room.  _No one_. Until she noticed the very end of a twitching tail. A large tail.

Swallowing hard, again, she held her breath as she followed the tail upward. Perched over a half-wall partition was what looked like a small leopard. Or a tabby the size of a dalmatian; it was difficult to tell which, what with her heart thundering in her ears being so very distracting from the sight.

She typically fancied herself a cat-person, but that was not a  _cat_. That was a wild animal staring at her.

How the  _bloody_  hell had it gotten in the house?

She didn't want to make a sound—which was silly, given that the beast was perfectly aware of her presence, holding her gaze as it was—but she wasn't quite certain what else to do. "H—husbands?!"

They must've not been far, because footsteps came thundering across the main floor at her strained shout.

She couldn't even register that there was another person with them as they rushed into the room.

"What?" they demanded in unison.

Hermione didn't want to move. Instead, she indicated the direction with a lift of her chin.

They turned, following the gesture. Immediately, Thorfinn turned a soured expression on Antonin, his eyes rolling. Antonin ignored the other man as he glanced at Hermione.

"Oh. Sorry she frightened you."

Her brows shot up. "She?"

"That's my familiar."

_"What?"_

"Now, Maia, come down from there," he said, his voice stern.

With one, final, impatient twitch of her tail, the cat shifted her weight. Stretching for a long, lazy moment, she then hopped gracefully to the floor and strolled over to her wizard.

"It's okay." He scratched between Maia's very long ears. "She's not as scary as she looks."

Hermione nodded. "She looks beautiful, but also like she might not think twice about devouring me if you forget to feed her."

The cat gave the witch a narrow-eyed expression that seemed to say she took  _both_  parts of the statement as a compliment.

"She's a Savannah cat. They are specially bred to look this way, but they're trainable and quite tame. You may pet her, if you like."

Hermione waved away his suggestion. She knew Crookshanks had never liked it much when she made decisions for him. "Maia," she said, now that she'd gotten some explanation and the nervous jittering in her stomach had quelled. "May I pet you?"

The cat sauntered up to her, leaning her large head close to the witch's hand. After a quick, inspecting sniff at Hermione's fingers, Maia nuzzled the top of her head beneath her palm.

Calming further as she noted how smooth the creature's glossy coat was, Hermione then realized that third party who'd entered the room. With a parting rub between Maia's ears, Hermione turned to face Thorfinn and the mystery wizard.

Thorfinn was also a sight that made her jump a little. Perched on his shoulder was a  _large_  owl. She'd seen great greys before, and knew they could get quite long due to their fluffy feathers, but this one was . . . intimidating at first sight. A perfect fit for the Viking of a wizard it was attached to.

But Hermione couldn't help herself. With a shake of her head, she waved in the massive bird's direction. "What?"

"Oh." Thorfinn nodded, like he'd forgotten the owl perched on his shoulder. "Princess, this is Strix. Strix, Princess."

The bird actually hooted a greeting at her. The face was different, but the sound stung her heart a little in how it reminded her of Hedwig.

Forcing a sad little grin, she offered Strix a small, friendly wave.

She at last turned her direct attention on the other man in the room. He was nearly as tall as Thorfinn, with stylishly spiky black hair, pale blue eyes, and a grin so charming it was almost irritating.

"Rabastan Lestrange," he said with a sweep of his arm and a bow of his head.

Hermione backpedaled a step before she even realized she'd moved. "Lestrange," she echoed the name with a nod. "I should've known there was something wrong with you."

"You really  _are_  a spitfire, aren't you?" There was a chuckle edging his tone, despite his words.

"You've no idea," her husbands answered in one voice.

Her eyes rolled, even as Rabastan stepped closer, his gaze moving over her in an appraising look. "I had to guess from photographs. I'm glad to see I got your sizes correct."

Eyebrows shooting up, she asked, "You're the one who filled the wardrobe."

He nodded. "Was charged with your wedding attire, too."

Hermione blushed crimson at that, which only made him laugh. "Pity they never got to see what you were wearing under your dress robes, I think."

Antonin's eyes widened and Thorfinn crooked a finger at the chatty wizard. "Rabastan, come here a moment, would you?"

Rabastan did as asked, only to catch fist against his shoulder. Frowning, he rubbed the site of impact with his free hand. "That was uncalled for."

"I should say it was very called for," Antonin said, earning him a nod of agreement from Thorfinn.

As bizarre a moment as it was to see something resembling possessiveness over her from Antonin and Thorfinn, Hermione understood what had just happened. They might not like each other very much, but she was still  _their_  wife.

If  _anyone_  was going to embarrass or fluster her, it was going to be one of  _them._

Turning his attention back to Hermione, Rabastan nodded, still rubbing his shoulder. "I was only here to drop off their familiars. I think I'll be going now. It was lovely to finally meet you in person, Hermione."

She only nodded back in response. Sometimes she forgot her place as Voldemort's most well-known prisoner of war came with it a form of pseudo-celebrity.

Yet, as he walked away, she said, "They're being terribly rude. You should stay for tea."

Thorfinn let his head fall back, uttering a groan. Antonin winced and shook his head.

At their responses, Rabastan nodded. That charming grin returning. "You know, I think I will. If we can add a little kick to that tea, of course."

Hermione nodded. She'd refrained from drinking, as her husbands usually partook in that particular activity at night, and she didn't want to subject herself to more time around them than was absolutely necessary, but now . . . .

"I think that can be arranged."

* * *

Hermione was surprised that she actually had a rather pleasant time. Rabastan was full of all sorts of mad stories about pure-blood childhood antics—apparently he and Thorfinn had known one another quite a long time. Antonin was a slightly newer addition to his circle, but there was no shortage of tales about him, too.

The Viking didn't always have such a temper. And Antonin had the habit of muttering half-formed spell equations when he dozed off. Who knew?

Though, a few times, she turned to look at her husbands as Rabastan chatted away. They both appeared as though they wanted to crawl under the table and disappear into the floor.

Entirely too soon, Rabastan took his leave.

As Hermione turned away from seeing him to the fireplace in the parlor, a hissed breath met her ears. Antonin was frowning as he clutched at his left forearm.

Oddly, Thorfinn was only watching him, an expression of dull confusion on his face. "It's just you."

"Only one of you is being summoned?" She'd seen Death Eaters use their Dark Marks to call to Voldemort before, it was easy enough for her to guess _he_ used them to call his followers to him the same way.

Voldemort certainly had a fondness for creepy, magically-imbued tattoos.

Thorfinn didn't seem to like the idea any more than Hermione did. He exhaled sharply through his nostrils, the way he always did when he was gearing up for an argument with her.

"Looks like it's just you and me tonight, Princess."

She winced and left the room to return to her Fire Whiskey-infused cup of tea.

* * *

Hermione and Thorfinn managed to make it through the rest of the evening and dinner in peaceful silence. It was surprising how much more pleasant he was when he kept his bloody mouth shut.

As Bridy and Caster cleared the table, Thorfinn surprised the witch. He nodded in the general direction of the drawing room. "Have a drink with me."

Her brows shot up. "I beg your pardon?"

His features pinched and he took to illustrating what he meant with hand gestures as he spoke. "You, me, drink."

She didn't know how she managed to hold in the rabid giggle she felt bubbling through her in response. The primitive sentence made her imagine him in a cheesy, Muggle caveman costume.

Reeling her humor back in, she asked, "Do we have to talk?"

Thorfinn shook his head. "We've made it this long without talking, I don't see why that can't continue."

"Okay, then."

* * *

Hermione realized too late that she should've known the peace would not last. Somewhere into their third round, Thorfinn opened his mouth and words tumbled out.

_Bollocks_.

"Did you mean what you said?"

She blinked and lifted her gaze to him. He wasn't looking at her, instead, he peered into his half-filled glass. "I've said many things. Can you be more specific?"

He polished off what was left of his drink in one long swig before answering. "That you want one of us to kill you."

Her eyes drifted closed and she let out a breath, finishing her drink, as well. Neither of them were  _nearly_  inebriated enough for this discussion.

"Yes," she said with a nod as she set her glass down.

His brows drew together and he sat forward, bracing his elbows on his knees and clasping his large hands before him. "Why?"

Hermione tried to ignore her own responding curiosity about  _hi_ s curiosity. Maybe he simply became introspective when he got a little liquor in him.

"Because your  _precious_ Dark Lord has seen to it that I can't manage that particular task, myself."

"And if you  _could_?"

She very much did not like this discussion. She wished they were arguing, that they were fighting and spitting tacks at each other, again. Anything but  _this_.

Setting down her glass, she stood and nodded at him. "I'd have off'ed myself the moment we got here. Goodnight, Thorfinn."

"Woah, woah, woah," he said, getting to his feet to stalk after her as she tried to walk out of the room. "You can't just say something like that and drop the conversation."

Hermione spun back to face him, almost startled at how close he was. "I didn't start this conversation, and I don't want to talk about this!"

An expression of realization dawning broke across his face. "You're angry with me, _personally_ , not just the situation."

"Of course I am! Now, please, let me just—"

"No." He shifted his weight to press his palms to the open drawing room door behind her, his arms blocking her in. "We're going to be stuck here  _a while_. Get it out. Go on!"

"I don't have to explain myself to you," she said, sudden tears of anger and frustration clogging her throat.

"You're not going anywhere 'til you do."

"Fine! Yes. Yes, _yes_! I am the _angriest_  person in the whole of the Wizarding world! I am angry with you, and Antonin, and Rabastan, and every  _single_  Death Eater. I'm angry at your Dark Lord. I want to watch him curl up and die and I want to dance on his corpse! Is  _that_  what you want to hear?"

"It's certainly a good start, and the first time I've heard yelling from you that _actually_  makes sense!"

Gritting her teeth, she punched him in chest. "God, I  _hate_  you!"

"Really?" A strangely feral grin curved his lips. "Tell me again. Tell me  _why_."

Hermione didn't want to talk. She wanted to punch him some more, wanted to stomp on his feet and kick him in the shins. But her strike just now didn't even get a flinch out of him.

Meeting his gaze, she let out an angry, shivering breath. "I  _hate_  you. I hate every  _damn_  person like you. Voldemort and  _everyone_  who helped him rise to power. You've stolen _everything_  from me!"

Thorfinn knew he should stop there, she'd had too much already. But he couldn't. They could  _not_  keep going the way they had been, or they really  _might_ kill each other.

"Go on!"

She was punching him again, each word from her lips followed by a strike—but they were about as effectual as a hummingbird's wings beating at a dragon.

"My friends, my life, my parents! I'll  _never_  see them again. They don't even _remember_  me. It's worse than being dead to them, at least then they'd know my  _name_!"

He tipped his head to one side, watching her expression as she went on, her punches becoming weaker as the moments ticked by.

" _Everything_  I ever cared about is gone, and it's all  _your_  fault!  _You_ are the face of everything wrong that's  _ever_ been done to me from the moment I set foot in the Wizarding world, and I  _hate_  you for it!"

"Good! At  _least_ that's honest!" He caught her wrists in one hand to stop her from barraging him with any more of her pathetic little jabs. "You can stop now, Princess."

Hermione met his gaze, again, her chestnut eyes swimming as she tried to pull out of his grasp. "No. I don't want to. I want to just keep hitting you until I feel better!"

"You think that'll work?"

"I don't care if it does, or not," she said, her voice hoarse. "I  _just_ want to stop hurting!"

Thorfinn shook his head. "Life is really so agonizing for you?"

"You would not  _possibly_  understand!"

"Oh, no, of course not." Once more, he shook his head, speaking through clenched teeth. "Because this is where I wanted to be, right? Locked in this bloody house, with Antonin Dolohov and a witch who hates the very sight of me? Guess what,  _Princess_? I hate you, too!"

Hermione was too busy struggling against his grip on her wrists to look at him. She refused to meet his gaze, aware she'd probably see the same mingling of rage and sincerity that she knew was in her own.

"You are the  _absolute_  embodiment of every person who's ever looked down on me. You think that big brain of your puts you above me? Well it doesn't! You're certainly _not_  the first person to look at me and not see beyond my  _lumbering_  appearance, Princess." He shook his head, grimacing as she finally did look up at him. "I was given no more choice in this than you, but you keep blaming me, if it makes you feel better!"

"It  _does_!"

" _Good_ ," he snapped back, dully aware that she'd given up her fight.

Their gazes locked, he could see the bloom of color dotting her cheeks as she breathed heavily. She could feel the brush of warmth against her skin as he exhaled.

How the bloody hell his mouth ended up on hers, she hadn't the foggiest. Yet, as he released her wrists to slide his arms around her and drag her body against his, she slipped hers around his neck and gripped her fingers into his hair.

He tilted his head, thrusting his tongue between her lips as he pressed his body to hers, pinning her against the door.

Hermione gave into it, caressing his tongue with her own as she clung to him. After several breathless minutes, he broke the kiss, nudging her face aside to catch her earlobe between his teeth, sending a warm, sweet tingle through her.

But then he shifted against her, and she could feel that he was hard.

That set off a sharper, more heated jolt coursing through her body—one that she most certainly was not ready for from him.

"Thorfinn, stop, please."

He froze instantly. Pulling back, he met her gaze as they caught their breath. "I didn't actually mean to do that."

"I know," she said, licking her lips nervously as she nodded.

Thorfinn stepped back, releasing her. He thought she would bolt from the room, but she made her out on slow, uncertain footsteps.

She turned back to look at him, seeing that he'd turned his head to watch her go. "Goodnight, Thorfinn."

He couldn't speak up, only nodding in acknowledgement, before she turned away and walked out of view. With a growl at himself, he dropped his forehead down against the door.

Bloody  _hell_ , he'd not meant for that to happen!


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter Five**

Antonin was weary when he stepped back through the Floo sometime after midnight. It wasn't enough the mission, itself had been taxing, but he'd had to put up with Rabastan's needling about Hermione, and the—as the younger wizard had put it—rampant tension in the house.

As if he'd wanted to have any such discussion.

He shrugged off his cloak and hung it over his arm as he made his way through the parlor. There was a bottle of Fire Whiskey with his name on it waiting. There was also the chance this situation he was trapped in was slowly edging him toward alcoholism, but he'd deal with that when he got there, he supposed.

Shaking his head, he made a bee-line for the liquor cabinet as soon as he entered the drawing room. As he turned back to face the room, bottle in hand, he noticed two glasses on the table. Frowning, he set his bottle down and moved toward the suspicious items.

Antonin's brow furrowed as he looked about. There, on the floor beside Thorfinn's favorite spot was a near-empty bottle. His eyelids fluttering in a series of rapid blinks, he shook his head once more.

Squaring his jaw, he gave himself a shake and decided to simply head up to bed. It wasn't any of his business what went on between Hermione and Thorfinn when he wasn't around, now was it?

He would have a word with Bridy and Caster about why this hadn't been cleaned up earlier, he thought, deliberately refocusing his mind to simpler, more obvious matters. Starting up the staircase to the second level, he found that thinking about anything else wasn't really possible.

He wasn't stupid. All that screaming and raging Hermione and Thorfinn always did at each other was bound to spill over in one form or another. Toss in leaving them alone for a night, and it was a recipe for disaster.

Upon reaching the landing, he truly couldn't help himself. Withdrawing his wand, he cast a quick detection spell across the second floor.

When the magic came back to him, determining they were each in their own rooms, he could not stop himself from breathing a sigh of relief. He knew he was being ridiculous to think it  _wasn't_  possible, however.

He was aware of how witches saw Thorfinn Rowle, and  _distinctly_ aware that Hermione and Rowle were much closer in age. They'd even gone to school together, for pity's sake. Six years apart, but somehow still managing to leave an impression on one another.

Antonin's dark eyes drifted closed, a quiet breath escaping his lips as he shook his head. Rowle was certainly a much better-suited match for Hermione than  _he_  was. That idea he'd had at the start of this—only a bloody week ago, for Merlin's sake—that she might eventually see him as anything more than the monster who'd nearly killed her if he just gave her time was little comfort, and seemed incredibly stupid in hindsight.

As he trudged down the corridor toward his room, the magic of his detection spell flared and flickered. With a frown, he paused, turning his attention to it.

There was another person somewhere ahead of him. Yet, as he lifted his gaze in the dim illumination, he saw no one. The spell was still telling him someone was  _there_.

The wretched nightly sobbing of Augustin Selwyn echoing through the Hall just then actually gave him a start.

He shook his head at himself, forcing out a sigh. "Bloody ghosts," he said in a hushed tumble of words as he ended the spell and finally continued to his room.

* * *

Hermione was expecting her visitor that night. After the sobbing—at the beginning of which she'd heard footfalls in the corridor, but remembering it was probably Dolohov returning from his summons stopped her from running to the sound to see who was out there, as her specter never made any noise before he reached her room—he hadn't appeared.

She frowned, her shoulders drooping a little. She'd deliberately stayed awake tonight after that mess with Thorfinn downstairs. She was also completely ignoring that every time she thought on it for even a moment, her lips tingled and she felt that stupid, heated pulse course through her, again.

Of course, she hadn't stayed awake because of the mess with Thorfinn, she'd stayed awake to determine if her nightly visitor was, in fact, a specter somehow able to materialize enough for physical interaction, or if he truly was something she'd dreamed up.

Pushing back her covers, she climbed from the bed and made her way to her en-suite bathroom. It hadn't escaped her awareness that those fingers she'd felt against her skin in that first bath she'd taken here had probably been his, if he was, in fact, an actual ghost. That, or maybe she was losing her mind.

Lighting a lantern on the marble counter beside the sink, she busied herself with starting a fire in the hearth before she ran a bath. As she waited for the tub to fill, she undressed, her movements slow and measured simply to pass the time.

Hermione piled her hair atop her head in an untidy bun and then slipped into the steaming water. Sitting back against the side of the tub, she felt fingers stroke over her messy wind of locks.

She didn't jump or even feel shocked by the touch, merely turning her head to see him. He lounged on the tiled floor just beyond the edge of the tub. Sprawled on his side and balancing his weight on his elbow, his other arm was reached around her head to continue playing with a few loose strands.

"You're late," she informed him, her tone playfully snippy.

That little grin of his curved his lips as he shrugged. "My apologies. I didn't realize we had such a strict schedule."

Hermione laughed in spite of herself and turned her head forward, letting him continue to play with her hair. "Will you tell me what you are?"

She could feel the rush of it against the back of her neck as he sighed. "What is it you think I am?" he asked in a soft whisper.

"I really don't know," she said, dropping her gaze to the water's surface. "I'd thought you were a ghost, but here you are, playing with my hair. I'd thought I'd dreamed you, but I'm awake. I feel safe when you're near and I have no idea why."

"I'm here for you when you have need of me." He shook his head and scooted just a bit closer to her. "Is that not enough of an explanation?"

Again, she laughed, her brows drawing upward. "You clearly don't know me very well." The sensation of his fingers stroking her hair was relaxing and she couldn't help leaning her head back against the tub's ledge, her eyes drifting closed.

"Did he hurt you?"

"Hmm? Who?"

"That great blond lummox."

"Thorfinn?" She tried not to recall what had happened, and failed, the flash of memory sending that stupid pulse of sweet and tingling warmth through her, once more. "No. He was just . . . it's complicated. I think he was  _actually_  trying to understand me."

The tone of her voice told her visitor clearly that the realization was a shock to her. He shook his head, his brow furrowing as he leaned down, delicately balancing his chin on her hair. "He's your husband, shouldn't wanting to understand you be expected?"

There was something so strange in hearing anyone besides herself refer to Thorfinn—or Antonin, for that matter—as her  _husband_. She supposed she kept expecting that this was all a dream, and one day she'd wake up. The more days that wore on, the more she doubted that was possible, at all, but a witch could hope.

"As I said, it's complicated."

He nodded, his fingers continuing to play soothingly with her hair. "I want you to tell me. If  _either_ of them hurts you, tell me."

Again, Hermione was drifting off. But not without feeling the brush of his lips over hers, first.

* * *

Sometime later, she awoke in the tub. The water had cooled and she was alone. The flames in the fireplace were no more than sputtering embers.

She pulled herself out of the tub, fretting as she grabbed her towel. Now, she  _had_ to explore this house. She  _needed_  to figure out what this protective nocturnal visitor of hers really was, and her gut told her the answers were only to be found in the forgotten recesses of Selwyn Hall.

* * *

Hermione and Thorfinn both ate their breakfast quietly the next morning. Antonin didn't know if he enjoyed the silence, or was terrified by it.

Clearly, something had happened last night, and he wasn't certain he cared to think on what that might be.

The unease in the pit of his stomach grew as they repeated the same numbing quiet throughout lunch and dinner. Between meals, Hermione had vanished somewhere into the depths of the enormous house. After dinner, she'd locked herself in her room.

And for four days after, they continued on, not even acknowledging one another.

Finally, in the middle of lunch on the fifth day following the first instance of this horrifying turn of events, he found he could take no more. Their silence, and the tension that was gripping the house in the absence of their little bickering matches had only gotten worse.

Every day, Hermione just about ran from the table when she was finished with her meal, not even bothering a glance at either of them. Thorfinn stomped and slammed things; even a gesture as simple and effortless as placing his fork down beside his plate was a noisy and clatter of metal against wood.

Even Maia and Strix were not immune to the pressure building in the house. The familiars spent the majority of the time roaming the grounds outside the Hall, just to avoid the human occupants.

And it seemed every little thing either one of them did wedged itself beneath Antonin's skin. Every deliberate avoidance of one another weighed on him.  _God_ , they made him want to throw things, and he wasn't even the sort to lash out that way!

As Hermione stood from her seat upon finishing her lunch, Antonin slammed down his utensils.

He lifted his gaze to see—with some degree of satisfaction—that the sound had drawn the attention of both the witch, and the other wizard. She had halted in mid-step, looking at him. Thorfinn was paused in the process of lifting a forkful of food to his lips, his gaze on Antonin's face.

Exhaling sharply, he braced his elbows on the table and clasped his hands under his chin. "Okay, you two. What the bloody  _hell_  happened the night I was summoned?"

"I don't want to talk about it," Hermione said, fidgeting in place.

Thorfinn only shook his head in answer, returning his attention to his meal.

"You should probably know the elves were lax in their cleaning duties that night. I saw the glasses when I returned, so I already know you shared a drink."

Sighing, Hermione shook her head and let her head fall back. Dammit. She was  _so_  on the verge of presenting Caster and Bridy with clothes! The only thing that had stopped her was something Bridy had mentioned, about the Dark Lord punishing the elves if they were relieved of their duties by their mistress.

"And now you two won't even look at one another. It's a  _bit_ of a dramatic change from how you were toward each other  _before_ that night, and I would dearly love to believe that neither of you has mistaken me for a stupid man."

She folded her arms under her breasts, her gaze darting about the room.

Thorfinn found the remnants of food on his dish utterly mesmerizing, it seemed.

"Oh, sweet Merlin," Antonin said in a grumble, pressing a palm to his forehead as his eyes squeezed shut. "You two shagged, didn't you?"

"What?" Hermione demanded.

At the same moment, Thorfinn let out a vehement, "No!"

"Okay, okay." The dark-haired wizard sat back, his head shaking as he shrugged. "Then I'm at a total loss." Honestly, a drunken shag would at least make sense,  _and_ explain this nonsense they were putting him through.

"It was nothing like  _that,_ " she said, though she wasn't certain why there was a niggling sense of guilt in her belly over the matter. Perhaps because she hadn't realized the fallout from that night would affect someone who had nothing to do with it.

It couldn't possibly have anything to do with Dolohov, himself.

"We were just . . . talking," Thorfinn tacked on with a shrug.

Antonin's dark eyes narrowed as he waited for more.

"And the talking turned into shouting." Hermione shuffled a heel against the floor, before she added with a wince, "Which, somehow led to . . . snogging."

Antonin nodded, a scowl settling over his features. Somehow the idea of talking, that the talk had led into an argument, and then to kissing seemed  _worse_ than a drunken shag.

He knew precisely why, too. The latter was no more than an inebriated physical act, while the former was  _emotional_.

And, from the look that had flitted across the witch's face as she'd finally admitted what had happened, he could tell that she was aware of the difference. Thorfinn's reluctance to lift his gaze as he swallowed hard gave the same indication of understanding.

Unable to put into words precisely why this hurt—he had no way to explain it to her that she would understand, not with how little she actually knew of him—he threw down his napkin and pushed away from the table. Without a backward look at either of them, Antonin stormed from the room.

"That was your fault," he heard Thorfinn hiss to her.

"Oh, shut  _up_ , you big, stupid Viking!"

_"_ Stupid? Did you  _really_  just call me that? You clearly didn't hear a  _word_  I said the other night!"

Grinding his teeth, Antonin continued on through the kitchen—much to the surprise of their bustling elves—and out the backdoor. He had no idea where he was going to go, or how he was going to get this anger out of his system without stomping back in there and killing Thorfinn.

Bloody hell! He _knew_ it wasn't Thorfinn's fault, not really. Intellectually he understood how chemistry worked; he was fully able to comprehend that those two were like kerosene and a fire charm.

Emotionally, he was ready to run back in there and hex Thorfinn Rowle within an inch of his life.

He took a deep breath, trying to let how beautiful the day was ease his ire. The temperature was unseasonably warm, considering the Winter Solstice was only two days away. But it was lost on him.

His gaze landed on a pile of logs waiting to be split for firewood. He didn't doubt that Caster was on top of things—the woodshed was probably already stocked with perfectly suitable firewood already for the impending turn in the weather that would take place over the next few days.

He turned his attention to the ax leaning against the door to the woodshed.

They could _always_  use more . . . . And the physical act of swinging the ax would likely prove cathartic, helping him work out his anger.

* * *

Hermione hated that way that discussion had gone. Not only had Antonin Dolohov looked at her like she'd just kicked his familiar—not that anyone in their right mind would  _ever_  kick Maia—but her bickering with Thorfinn had started up again.

She let out a sigh as she looked about the new room she'd found. Storage space for knick-knacks, it seemed. Maybe a tinkerer's hobby space?

Typically, she knew she'd be ravenously curious about each and every antique in here. But at the moment, she couldn't help the odd twisting in her stomach.

She'd been slowly coming to the understanding that Antonin was not as terrible as she'd imagined him for so long—if he was, he would not have been so patient as to sit through the constant hissing fits she exchanged with Thorfinn. Other than that nasty little blow up last week—when he'd gotten her to admit she wished they'd kill her—he'd been the voice of reason in the house.

An hour must've passed since the dark-haired wizard had exited the house, slamming the backdoor behind him, and she'd heard nothing to indicate that he'd returned. She tried again to pay attention to any of the dusty items that were just begging to be cleaned off and poked at.

Yet, none of the mysterious objects in here held her interest, just now. How vexing.

_Dammit!_  She was _going_  to have to talk to him, wasn't she?

Grumbling to herself, she left the little room and started through the house. She could hear Thorfinn in his own hobby space as she went, the sounds of charms booming and crackling ringing off the walls.

With a shake of her head, she trooped through the dining room and kitchen, and out the back door. She barely made it two meters from the house when she saw him and stopped short.

Of all the things she expected to see when she stepped from the house and started down the cobblestone path that led into the wooded grounds surrounding much of the house, a shirtless Antonin Dolohov chopping firewood was  _not_  one of them.

Swallowing hard, she reminded herself to keep walking. He was so engrossed in his task that she was certain he didn't even hear her approach.

Hermione circled him, giving a wide berth—she didn't want to be hit by that ax, or flying splinters. She pretended she didn't notice the sunlight glinting off the dusting of dark hair across his chest and abdomen . . . and _definitely_  pretended not to notice that he was nicely muscled. Not an easy task when those muscles were currently working to swing the ax.

He paused for only a second to push his long, disheveled hair out of his eyes.

"What are you doing?"

Much to her surprise, he was not caught off-guard by her presence. He gave a minuscule shrug as reached for the next piece of wood. "I came out here, because I needed to work out my anger. Saw the ax and the wood,"  _chop,_  "thought this was probably better than having it out with Thorfinn."

"You've been out here for an hour."

_Chop_. "So I have."

Hermione winced as she asked, "Are you still angry?"

"Am I still chopping wood?"  _Chop_.

"Yes."

Another shrug and a tiny nod. "Then I'm still angry."  _Chop._

"Antonin, stop."

That was possibly the first time she hadn't called him  _Dolohov._ The ax stilled in the air as he turned to look at her. He drew in a deep breath and let it out slowly before he lowered the blade.

Daring to step closer to him, Hermione reached down, easing the handle from his grip with a cringe. Setting it aside, she straightened up, caught off by the intensity of his dark-eyed gaze.

She forced a gulp down her throat, but refused to step back to where she'd originally been. Like it or not, he  _was_ her husband. She had to be able to stand her ground when speaking to him, physically and emotionally.

"I  _know_ you're upset," she said, ignoring the  _you don't say?_ look he gave her. "But I'm not sure I understand why."

"You wouldn't,  _would_  you?" Antonin shook his head, frowning. He leaned down just a little to speak from between clenched teeth. "Try seeing me as a  _person_ , then you might figure it out."

Hermione genuinely was at a loss and found herself scrambling to figure out what he meant. "Of course you're a person."

He let out a mirthless chuckle, his head tipping back for a moment as the miserable sound ran its course. Meeting her gaze, once more, he again shook his head. "No, not to you. You see me the same way as you have since that night in the Department of Mysteries.  _You_ see me as a monster. I can tell; it's _not_  a look that is foreign to me."

"It's hard not to see a monster standing before you when you still bear his scars." The words fell from her lips before she could stop them.

Antonin uttered a scoffing sound as he propped his hands on his hips. "What do you  _want_ from me? What can I do to  _possibly_  make that better? To make that up to you?"

"I don't think you can!" She stomped a heel angrily, her hands balled into fists at her sides as she glared up at him. "Don't you get that? There is no  _here's a bouquet of roses, sorry I almost took your life_. It doesn't work that way!"

"And so I ask again, Hermione," he said, his head shaking once more, and his expression oddly pained. " _What_  do you want from me?"

_Dammit!_  She'd come out her to talk to him—to understand what had happened in the dining room—and somehow it'd devolved into a screaming match worthy of her interactions with her  _other_ husband.

Blinking hard, she let out a heavy sigh. "I want to know why you're so angry about what happened between Thorfinn and me."

He seemed at a loss for what to say.

"Why do you care at all?"

That was it, those were the words that loosened his tongue. "Because I'm the only one who actually  _wants_ to be here."

She shook her head. "I don't—"

"Every time you talk about how  _miserable_ you are here, it tears at me. Hearing you say you'd rather be dead than here with me made it so I couldn't  _breathe_!" He clenched his teeth, anger pinching his features. "I thought this . . . absurd situation would give you the chance to look at me and see  _more_ than the monster."

His words actually _hurt_. Hermione blinked hard a few times, trying to process it. He cared so much what she thought of him? How was that even possible?

Her voice squeaked out, a small and shivering whisper, "What is it  _you_  want from me?"

Antonin's broad shoulders drooped, the anger draining from his expression. Taking a risk, he reached out, cupping her face in his hands.

Only when she didn't flinch or pull away, did he answer. "I want you to see  _me_."

She slipped her hands up over his, but didn't try to dislodge herself from his grasp. There was so much pain in his eyes. She never would have thought  _he_ would look at her this way.

Shaking his head, he forced a gulp down his throat. "Don't you understand?" he said, his voice so low she barely heard it. "I would worship you, if only you'd  _let_ me."

Hermione didn't know what possessed her—if it was the way he was looking at her, or his confession, or the feel of his warm breath tickling her skin—but the words, "Prove it," spilled from her lips.

Whatever he'd expected her to say,  _that_  had not been it. With a mildly confused half-smile, he brought his mouth down on hers.

She sighed into him, leaning forward against him before she could stop herself. The warmth of his skin pressing to hers through her dress and his tongue parting her lips to slip between undid her.

Her arms slid up around his neck, holding him close as he walked them backward. Only dimly was she aware of her back hitting the wall of the woodshed.

His hands trailed along her sides, circling her to cup her arse as he broke the kiss. He dragged his lips down her throat, bending his knees by increments as he lowered against her.

Hermione shivered, a small moan tearing from her throat at the feel of his teeth scraping over her breasts through the fabric of her dress. Her head tipped back and her eyes closed as she raked her fingers through his hair.

It seemed all too soon, his knees hit the ground, and he was pulling the length of her dress up and out of his way.

She jumped a little, but made no move to stop him, at the feel of his fingers tracing along the elastic lines of her knickers. The sensation of him pulling aside the satin to tease her sent a sweet shiver through her and forced another moan from her lips.

Reveling in her response, Antonin angled his gaze upward, watching her. He slipped a hand behind her knee to pull her leg over his shoulder. Parting her with the tips of his fingers, he leaned in, burying his mouth between her thighs.

"Oh,  _God_ ," she said in a helpless whisper, her fingers tightening into fists in his hair as the tip of his tongue worked in delicious, flickering circles.

Once more, he slid his hands around her. Holding her too him, he sealed his lips against her, drawing on the sensitive little bead of flesh beneath his tongue in gentle, suckling pulls.

Hermione shuddered in his embrace, gasping as she clung to him. She followed his guidance as his hands moved her to rock her hips, complimenting how the tiniest shift in the angle of his head against her changed the pressure of his mouth.

The poor thing was tensing in his hold, already. He chuckled against her as he considered that they'd  _need_  to work on her stamina.

She stood on her toes, gripping him to her more tightly, still, as his swirling tongue and the sweet press of his lips pushed her over the edge. Closing her lips to hold in an ecstatic scream, she couldn't even jump as he slid up the inside of her thigh, sinking his fingers inside her as she came.

His delving hand and the working of his mouth nursed her through her orgasm, moving with her as it ebbed.

As her hips rocked and twitched with the aftershocks, he pulled back. Withdrawing his fingers to slide them forward, he cupped between her thighs to continue pressing against her with each shiver that tore through her.

Antonin rose to his full height before her, his hand still pressing and rubbing until she all but collapsed against him.

She dropped her head down on his chest as he finally slipped his hand from her and righted her knickers and dress. Struggling to catch her breath, she looked up at him, her expression questioning.

A half-smile curved his lips as he held her gaze. "You did ask me to prove it," he said with an upward flick of his eyebrow.

"So I did." She nodded, though she was having a hard time believing he'd just done that to her  _outdoors_.

She looked toward the house, all the tingly warmth drained from her as she noticed the blond wizard in the window. Thorfinn had just seen the entire thing, she'd bet. And she had no idea how to feel about that.

Slipping from Antonin's arms without thought, she merely held Thorfinn's gaze through the window for a pained moment before he turned and vanished from sight.

"What's wrong?" Antonin asked, following her gaze from over the top of her wild hair a moment too late.

Biting her lip to keep it from trembling, she shook her head. "Thorfinn saw us."

His tone was quite serious, not betraying the smirk that curved his lips as he said, "Oh, damn. Do you think this will be trouble?"

He had the presence of mind to wipe the amused expression from his face  _before_ she turned her head to shoot him a withering look.


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter Six**

Hermione expected that when she went back into the house, Thorfinn would be waiting, silent and visibly angry, just  _waiting_  for her to say something that would inevitably spark an argument. The very idea of it twisted her stomach and made her contemplate eeking out space to sleep in the bloody woodshed.

This would all have been much easier even just a week prior, when she was still so certain she could feel nothing toward either of them but hatred. Now that she wasn't exactly sure  _what_ she felt for the wizards she was married to, things were infinitely more complicated.

But, as she entered through that same back door—suddenly it seemed like days had gone past between when she'd stormed out to find Antonin and now—and strode through the kitchen toward the main body of the house, she didn't see him. She didn't even hear the crackle and boom of him angrily firing off charms and practice-hexes in his hobby room.

She was very confused on how the silence in the house made her feel. And even more so when Antonin followed behind her to stand close at her back.

Her mind was remarkably made up on the fact that she did not regret what she'd just allowed to happen with him by the woodshed. She didn't regret what had happened with Thorfinn in the drawing room, either, for that matter.

But she was being pulled in two different directions, no matter how she looked at her situation. How could she deal with all of this when only a few weeks earlier the only thing she'd been capable of feeling was anger?

Bridy appeared at the foot of the staircase, puttering about her chores. Hermione cleared her throat, delicately calling the tiny thing's attention.

The elf smiled a broad, toothy grin as she toddled over to stand before her mistress. "You wan' to see Bridy, Mis'ress Minnie?"

Hermione nearly elbowed the wizard behind her right in his stomach as he snickered. She rolled her eyes and shook her head a little.

"Minnie?"

She turned her head to glare at him over her shoulder. She sort of hated that now she couldn't look at him without noticing that he was quite handsome—she'd thought it before, but she'd been able to ignore the fleeting observation, before. Damn hormones and emotions and all of that nonsense!

"It's the best she can do," she said in a hissing whisper. Clearing her throat and returning her attention to Bridy, Hermione asked, "Where is Thorfinn?"

"Master Thorn wen' for a walk in the woods. Said he needed t' think."

Hermione's eyes shot wide . . . . Only to narrow lethally half a heartbeat later at Antonin's muttered words behind her, "Good Merlin, witch, you've broken him!"

She knew he was probably poking fun at her because he could see how tense she was—that, and Antonin Dolohov didn't exactly have the word  _jokester_ written on him, anywhere. Well, nowhere that she'd seen of him, yet, but she couldn't think about _that_ , either, just now.

But she needed to think, too . . . . Or at least needed time to herself. She and Antonin had certainly broken new ground in their marriage today, but her marriage to Thorfinn . . . . That look he was giving her through the window twisted her up in knots and she couldn't even rightly say why.

 _God_ , being married to two men was really more trouble than it was worth! This had clearly been Voldemort's plan all along, to slowly drive her mad by locking her up with these two, since her time in Azkaban hadn't done the trick.

"Bridy, please bring my dinner to my room later. I need to be alone for a while."

"O' course, Mis'ress Minnie," the elf said, before popping along to continue on with her chores.

She stepped toward the staircase, but Antonin's hand slipping around her elbow stopped her. Forcing a breath, she turned to look at him—and promptly remembered he'd yet to put his bloody shirt back on.

"Are you all right?"

Hermione frowned, tipping her head side-to-side for a moment as she thought. "I'm . . . yes. As I said, I just need to be alone for a bit. I'm a little confused right now."

"Did I go too far?" Antonin tried not to grin, but he couldn't help feeling rewarded by the bloom of color that flooded her cheeks in response to his question.

"No, um . . . no," she said in a low voice. Her head shaking, she drew in a rattling breath. "It's just that I was so certain I wasn't ready for something like _that_  so fast, but now that it's happened and I'm weirdly okay with it, it throws into question how I  _actually_  feel, if that makes sense."

He nodded, allowing his hand to drop from her.

Hermione tried to ignore the awareness of his gaze following her as she turned away and moved up the staircase.

* * *

Between the ledgers and journals on Selwyn family history, the volumes on ghosts and hauntings, and a few on magickal artifacts, she had her hands full for the rest of the day; probably for the next few weeks, if she managed to pace herself. By the time Bridy came to her with dinner, she was half-way through the journal Augustin Selwyn's bride-slash- _probable_ -murderer-slash-widow had kept.

Though the woman—Vera—claimed innocence in her private account of the events following their wedding, Hermione couldn't help feeling the other witch's words lacked sincerity. Vera wrote constantly of how terrified she was that others would think her responsible, her relief when everyone stopped pointing fingers at her and she could get on with her life . . . but only ever mentioned feeling sorrow or grief over Augustin's death in passing, fleeting snippets.

As though they were tossed in as an afterthought.

Swallowing hard, she'd closed the tatty, leather-bound book and pushed it aside to turn her attention to her meal. More than likely, she thought, Vera had kept that journal for the very hope that others would read her supposedly private thoughts, and decide she must be innocent of the crime.

"Oh, Vera," Hermione said with a headshake. "Clearly a Ravenclaw you were not— _they'd_  know something like that would be seen through."

That night, her visitor didn't speak. He glanced briefly at the pile of books, causing Hermione to wonder if he sensed the presence of Vera's written words, somehow.

It had occurred to her more than once to attempt addressing him as  _Augustin_ to see if she was correct in his assumed identity, but each time, the name died on her tongue. Would he be hurt if that  _wasn't_  who he was?

He simply sat with her, holding her and stroking her hair as she fell asleep. As she drifted, she couldn't help wondering if he was silent because she needed to let the hum of her thoughts die down, or because  _he_ did.

* * *

Three days later, Hermione was no closer to any answers about her nightly specter—though she did notice that he was silent whenever she left the ledgers and family journals lying about. She avoided Antonin, not through any fault of his own, she simply had no idea how to be in his presence after what had happened—Thorfinn's reaction when she finally did get ahold of him hadn't helped things between her and Antonin, at all.

And Thorfinn . . . .

As a bell chimed, signaling an arrival by Floo, she deliberately put thoughts of what had transpired between her and her lumbering Viking of a husband out of her head. Maia had taken to loping silently behind Hermione when she wandered the house, so she was not surprised to find the large feline trailing her as she made her way to the parlor.

She  _was_  surprised to find Rabastan Lestrange standing before her fireplace and cleaning soot from himself with a quick  _Scourgify_.

Upon seeing her, a smile lit his face. "Hermione!"

Her brows drew upward in question . . . until she spotted the sealed bottle of Fire Whiskey he carried by the neck.

He lifted the bottle. "Thought I'd invite myself over for tea with you, again." Then he shuddered, his grin fading as he glanced about. "Not a moment too soon, I think. Merlin, you can just  _feel_  the tension in this house."

Hermione halted in mid-reach as she moved to take the bottle from him. "Bloody hell. It's really that obvious?"

"Tell you what? Have the loopy little elf put on the tea, and you can tell me all about it."

After a moment's thought, she nodded. Some of it would be spectacularly awkward, sure, but she liked the idea of having someone to talk to about Thorfinn and Antonin  _other_  than Thorfinn and Antonin.

She grabbed the bottle from him, absently patting Maia's head before she turned on her heel and started back toward the parlor for the tea room. "Only _after_  we've opened this."

Rabastan jumped at the boom that echoed through the first floor of the house as he followed the witch. "The bloody hell was that?"

"That would be one of my husbands, working out some aggression," she said with a tired shake of her head.

"Thorfinn and his temper."

She didn't agree or disagree—both of them had tempers, Antonin simply had a longer fuse. Thorfinn, on the other hand, had a hair trigger, which often led him to do things she thought he must  _certainly_  regret.

Once they were settled at the table, whiskey-infused tea being sipped and warming their bellies, Rabastan turned that infuriatingly charming grin on her. "So, tell me what's going on?"

Hermione dropped her gaze to the table and hid a frown behind her tea cup.

His brows drew upward as he watched her expression. "Look, I was forced to marry a witch I didn't even know. Just before I was assigned by the Dark Lord to purchase your . . . well, let's call them womanly supplies."

She snickered behind her cup. "I didn't know you'd been made to go through this, too. You don't seem  _nearly_  so miserable."

"Because I'm not. You probably remember her from Azkaban, even if you didn't know her from Hogwarts, Elisha . . . Lestrange, now. Certainly remembers you." He took a long sip of his tea as he thought. "But, I'm not an unreasonable man—Oh!" He laughed at the face Hermione made in response. "Sure, you think  _just_  because I'm a Death Eater, I'd make a terrible husband?"

"Based on evidence at hand," she said in an unhappy tumble of words as she gestured in a dismissive wave to indicate her home.

"Well, I'll have you know I'm not. But do you know the one thing she did for me that you won't do for your husbands?"

Chestnut eyes narrowed. "This better not be something perverted."

Rabastan chuckled. "No, and you're a filthy trollop for thinking so."

She couldn't help but grin at him. Smarmy bastard.

"She knew I had no more choice in it than she did. And so . . . she gave me a _chance_."

 _You're certainly not the first person to look at me and not see beyond my lumbering appearance, Princess. . . . I was given no more choice in this than you, but you keep blaming me, if it makes you feel better!_ Thorfinn's words tumbled through her head, followed by Antonin's from just a few days ago.  _Hearing you say you'd rather be dead than here with me made it so I couldn't breathe!_

She certainly thought she'd ended up giving Antonin a chance, though in the days that followed said chance, perhaps she wasn't.

Which led her back to Thorfinn and what had happened two days ago in his hobby room. She didn't know which of them was more responsible for denying the other an opportunity like what Rabastan was referring to.

"What did you do with the chance she gave you?"

Rabastan smirked, watching her for a moment before answering. "I have been spoiling her in  _every_  way possible since. And yes, some of  _that_ certainly is meant in a filthy way."

Sighing, she sat back and set down her cup.

"Oh, I see." His smirk widened a little. "So some filthy things have happened, already. It's the other areas that are a mess, I take it. Go on, give Bass the details."

Again, she snickered at his nonsense. But she really did want to tell someone what was happening, and she got the distinct impression that while her specter knew pretty much what was happening between her and her husbands, they didn't discuss it in-depth.

After a long sip that drained her cup—which he was kind enough to refill—she relayed to him what had happened beside the woodshed. She blushed and bumbled her way through the basic rundown of it, certainly, but there was more than enough for him to know precisely what had transpired. That, and she'd been able to quote the man's declaration to her, being  _rather_ difficult to forget, as it was.

"Antonin's a romantic . . . who knew?"

Hermione smirked.

"And the other one? From the way you said it, I'm guessing Thorfinn didn't actually  _like_  partaking in that particular act of voyeurism?"

She thought back on her interaction with Thorfinn following his witnessing of her and Antonin's little moment. Even as her mind wandered over every little detail, she provided  _Bass_  with only the most basic information, once again, knowing she probably couldn't voice anything more descriptive.

* * *

_The morning following the woodshed incident, Hermione was woken up by more noisy charms and hexes practice from her lumbering Viking of a husband. She tried to ignore the angry sounds, assuming that he'd step away from his outlet for breakfast._

_He never showed, leaving her to make idle chatter with Antonin. Though it was surprisingly pleasant, their deliberate avoidance of mentioning Thorfinn made things a bit strained and awkward._

_As he toyed with the last morsel of food on his plate, Antonin finally said, "Perhaps you should go talk to him."_

_Hermione laughed at the very notion. "Yes, because he and I communicate_ so _well."_

_"Admittedly, I'd love it if he'd stay locked in his little room for the rest of time and leave me with you all to myself."_

_She blushed, unable to hold his gaze as a tiny grin curved her lips._

_He sighed and shook his head. Merlin, he hated when his age showed like this, but once again, the rational born of years her_ other _husband simply didn't have reared its head. "But I can see that it's bothering you leaving things like this with him. So . . . go on."_

_Nodding, she excused herself from the table and crossed the house. As she moved toward Thorfinn's hobby room, she found herself a little worried by the silence. Maybe he'd gone out to wander the woods, again, and she could avoid what was likely to be a horrifically awkward discussion at best, or yet another screaming match at worst._

_"Thorfinn?" No response. Opening the door, she poked her head in._

_He sat in the cushy armchair in the center of the room—seemingly the only piece of anything to survive his most recent rampage. His gaze was fixed on the far wall as he balanced his wand between his palm and one of his knees._

_He looked at her as she stepped into the room and closed the door behind her. "Oh, I'm sorry? Should I leave? You and Dolohov get tired of being all outdoorsy and decide you want to come play in here?"_

_She scowled, crossing the room to stand before him. "That's not fair, you insufferable shit! I don't know why I even bother_  trying _to talk to you."_

_"That makes two of us."_

_Hermione was very confused by his sullen attitude. Yes, she was_ more  _than aware that his ego was probably damaged by what he'd seen, but his behavior . . . it_ truly  _seemed his feelings were hurt._

 _No, he couldn't actually be upset because he_ cared _._

 _"Wait. This isn't about our situation. You're angry with_ me _." Well, didn't this just sound like a reverse of their conversation from the drawing room?_

 _"Bloody hell . . . brightest witch of your age, and it took you_ that  _long to work it out, did it?"_

 _"That is_ splendid  _coming from a man who seems to enjoy making me think he doesn't give a damn," she said, her words slipping out from between clenched teeth._

 _He stood from his chair to tower over her, but as per usual with Hermione fucking Granger, she only lifted her gaze to hold his, not intimidated by the tactic in the slightest. "I_ tried _to get you to talk to me! I_  tried _to get you to open up! Does that_ sound _like someone who doesn't give a damn?!"_

_"I—"_

_"You want to know why I'm angry? You_ really _want to know?" He didn't wait for her reply, going on as he raked his fingers through his disheveled blond hair. "I'm angry because I don't_ know _how else to feel! Do you have_ any _idea what it's like to look outside and see your_ wife  _getting her knickers licked by another man and trying to tell yourself it's nothing, because that's her husband, too? It's_ maddening _, it is!"_

 _Hermione closed her mouth, her eyes wide as she listened. If not for how serious he was and the anger still evident in his blue eyes, what he'd just said would actually be rather amusing. And she was_ not _about to exacerbate the situation by laughing just now._

 _"Dolohov is all over you, and you_ let  _him. I kissed you, and you ran away! Are you shitting me?!"_

 _Her shoulders drooped and she folded in on herself a little. "It actually_  does _sound like you care."_

_His face pinched a moment; clearly that hadn't occurred to him. "Well, maybe I do!"_

_That his voice was still raised caused her to raise her own. "Then why are you always shouting at me?"_

_Thorfinn leaned down, putting his face close to hers, but made no attempt to lower his volume or soften his tone. "Perhaps because shouting at you stops me from doing what I actually_ want  _to do!"_

_"Well, I'm a tired of your belly-aching, so why don't you just go and do it, already, you big, stupid Viking!"_

_Well . . . . Hermione could hardly say she was surprised when he slid a hand into her hair and pulled her against his chest, his mouth crashing down over hers. No more surprised than she was that her arms were winding around his neck of their own accord as she parted her lips to caress his plunging tongue with her own._

_He fell back to sit in his chair, moving her with him to straddle his lap. Thorfinn broke the kiss, dragging his lips down along her jaw and to her throat as she struggled to pull the irritating and cumbersome length of her dress out from under her so she could sit against him more comfortably._

_His fingers curled in her wild mess of locks, he tipped her head back, nipping and lapping at her skin. He tugged blindly at the buttons on the back of her dress with his free hand, a few popping right off to clatter noisily to the floor._

_"Brute," she admonished in a breathy murmur as she sank her hands into his hair._

_He spoke against her skin as he tugged her dress down her shoulders and lower, exposing her breasts, "You don't know the half of it."_

_Hermione lowered her gaze to look down at herself, just in time to watch Thorfinn's head dip, his mouth closing around one of her nipples. She shifted in his lap, trying to get closer to him and becoming instantly aware of how hard he was beneath her._

_The feel of him pressing between her thighs sent a sweet, tingling shiver through her. A little moan tearing from her lips, she let her head fall back as she rocked her hips, pushing herself against him._

_He let the delicate skin slip from between his teeth. "Dear Merlin, witch," he said in a rough whisper, his free hand disappearing beneath the voluminous layers of fabric to cup her arse with splayed fingers. He guided her to move in sharper motions over him. "You're going to be the death of me."_

_The more violent motions sent a delicious shudder through her and she dropped her head down against his shoulder. She clung to him as he started shifting beneath her, pressing more tightly to each of her strokes._

_"I swear, I really . . . really only came in here to talk." Though, for some reason, she couldn't seem to stop herself from raking her teeth over the soft skin, just below his ear._

_"Funny." He used his hand in her hair to pull her up, forcing her back to arch so that he could cover her breasts with teasing bites as he spoke, "because unless you have an objection, you're leaving here shagged."_

_Hermione almost couldn't believe herself as she shook her head in his grip. "No—no objections, here!"_

_Thorfinn uttered a gravelly chuckle as he slid the hand beneath her dress forward. She did surprise him with how compliant she was as she stilled, allowing him to open his trousers and pull his cock free of his clothes._

_The feel of his fingers between her thighs to tug her knickers out of his way brought a moan out of her. But then he paused—the bastard_ waited  _before slipping inside her!_

_"Sensitive little thing, aren't you?" he asked, still with those playful bites, the hand with which he was positioning himself beneath her brushing the slick skin._

_"Oh, just stop talking, already!"_

_At the strain in her voice, he couldn't help but laugh again, even as he entered her._

_Hermione held her breath, stilling in his embrace as he slid his full length inside her. Dropping her head down on his shoulder, once more, she inhaled slowly and carefully as her body adjusted._

_Thorfinn couldn't help the smirk curving his lips. "You all right there, Princess?"_

_Swallowing hard, she nodded, gripping her hands around his broad shoulders to brace herself._

_He locked his arms around her, moving her against his thrusts. He worked her over him slowly at first, and then faster by increments, until she was moving on her own._

_She trembled and shuddered, closing her lips in a tight line to hold in series of moans at the sweet, blissful sensation of him sliding into her and withdrawing fast and hard, again and again._

_He held her closer, biting and flicking his tongue over every inch of skin he could reach as she shivered and rocked against him._

_Quite sooner than she was ready for it to happen, her muscles were tensing, her body going taut over him. Again, she heard that infuriating snicker of his, felt the breathy rush of it against her skin._

_"Go on, Princess," he said, his voice tight. "Give in to me."_

_A whimpering sound escaped her lips as her head fell back and she stilled over him. Shivers wracked her as she came, adoring the way he thrust into her more sharply, still, as the orgasm washed through her._

_When it began to ebb, she started moving against him, again, aftershocks adding little, twitching movements to the rocking of her hips._

_"Just a minute," he said, the words tumbling out in a barely audible whisper._

_She wasn't certain what he meant until she felt his pace shift. Faster, again, somehow, but erratic and jerking. Just as her orgasm finally left her, making her want to collapse in his arms, his hands clamped over her hips, moving her more sharply against him._

_Her brow furrowing, she followed his guidance. Hermione's body shivered, fine tremors wracking her muscles, but moving against him sent such sweet little spikes of pleasure through her that she didn't want to stop just yet._

_He held her so tight, she was certain she'd have bruises on her hips when this was over. A groan worked its way out of his throat as he nodded, before moving into her in one last thrust, so hard it nearly hurt._

_Understanding what he meant now, she gripped his shoulders, once more, rocking her pelvis to work herself over him until he was spent._

_As he relaxed beneath her, sinking into the cushions of the chair, he slowed her motions, gradually guiding her to halt._

_Her head on his shoulder yet again as they caught their breath, she said, "I meant, what I said. I really . . . oh, God. I really had only come in here to talk."_

_He nodded, chuckling yet again. "And you really are leaving here shagged."_

_After what was probably fifteen minutes, or better—she couldn't say why she hadn't just gotten up the moment she was certain her legs would support her, though she had to think she enjoyed being held nearly as much as she'd just enjoyed behind shagged—she finally slipped from his lap and stood. Holding in a grumble, she spared a moment to gather up her popped buttons. There was nothing to be done for it, she'd have to run up to her rooms and change._

_Thorfinn stood as well, breathing in a long, deep breath as he stretched. "Think I'm ready for breakfast, now."_

_"You're going to give Caster fits, you know, eating at unscheduled times like this," she informed him as he followed her to the door._

_"Gee, can't think_ why _I wasn't in the mood to eat earlier."_

 _"Oh, do_ not _start that again." She was scowling as she looked over the clumps of thread and fabric still attached to some of the buttons. Bridy was going to have a fit of her own when she saw what was done to one of_ Mistress' Pretties _, as she liked to refer to Hermione's clothes._

_Thorfinn reached around her to pull open the door._

_She had the misfortune of stepping through, disheveled and her dress torn, and undoubtedly glowing with the Viking of a wizard directly behind her, just as Antonin was crossing the floor toward his study. His dark-eyed gaze darted from Hermione to Thorfinn and back._

_For a few heartbeats, it seemed he'd say nothing, at all._

_But then his features pinched in anger as he bellowed, "I told you to_ talk _to him!"_

 _Before Hermione could respond, Thorfinn jumped in, shrugging lazily. "We_ did  _talk, we just happened to do other things while we were at it."_

_"I don't believe I was speaking to you, Rowle."_

_"I don't really care. I've had just about enough of your shit, Dolohov."_

_"Enough!" The word booming from the little witch standing between them shut them both up instantly. The crack and sizzle of magic edging her fingertips in her anger certainly helped in that regard._

_When they both looked at her, wide-eyed, she managed to continue through clenched teeth. "I know bloody well this isn't easy for either of you, but it's not easy for me, either! How_ dare _you forget that I'm actually a person in all this!"_

_"Hermione," Antonin started, his head shaking as his broad shoulders slumped._

_"No! I don't want to hear it from either one of you. I know it's a shit deal that you're both stuck with_  only _me, and I'm sorry for how difficult that must be, but I will_  not _be a trophy in your pissing match! So, until you two find some way to co-exist, I'm not dealing with either one of you!"_

_With a shuddering breath, Hermione gathered the length of her dress in her hands and stormed up to her room. She was certain the slamming of her door behind her was so loud that it echoed through the entire Hall._

* * *

Rabastan's brows shot up as he sipped what was probably his third round of spiked tea. "Bloody hell. You actually just made me happy I  _don't_  have two wives."

Shaking her head, Hermione frowned as she added just a smidgen more Fire Whiskey to her cup.


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter Seven**

"For what it's worth," Rabastan said with a sigh as he sat back from the table, "even with my talk of you needing to give them a chance, I think they are equally to blame for the less-than-happy state of this . . .  _marriage_."

Hermione snickered, taking another sip of her spiked tea. "Of that, I'm _well_  aware."

"Well, for the obvious reasons, sure. But they're also being stupid—between us that I called either of them that, of course."

She nodded. "I'll take it to my grave."

He grinned, winking at her before making a show of rubbing his shoulder. "Still sore from the last time I gave Thorfinn reason to be cross with me."

"He can be a bit of a  _brute_ ," she conceded, trying not to smile, though there was a distinct affection in her tone as she said the word. She hid her expression behind her cup, just to be safe.

"If it were up to me, and I were one of your husbands . . . ." He shrugged, giving her a playful once over that caused her to reach across the table and slap him lightly on the arm. " _If_  I were, I'd opt for the more peaceful path and just share you."

Hermione snorted into her tea cup in a most unladylike fashion at that.

Rabastan couldn't help but smirk as he watched her set down her cup and cover her mouth with her hand, shielding a series of small, hiccuping coughs as she cleared her throat.

"You're not serious," she said, shaking her head in disbelief.

With a weighted sigh and a head shake of his own, he lifted his cup for another sip. "You'll find, Hermione, that I am  _always_ serious about matters of the heart or the bed."

She cleared her throat a second time and nodded. Well, now she thought she understood why neither of her husbands were comfortable when it came to her budding friendship with Rabastan Lestrange.

"Just consider trying to get along with them, for all your sakes. You never know when a friendly conversation with your spouse can turn into two or three wonderfully mindless days behind closed doors."

Hermione blushed as she folded her lips into a thin line.

He snickered at her sudden and obvious bout of shyness, but it was as much a sound of amusement as it was of apology. "It is about time that I take my leave."

"Oh, fine," she said with a small laugh as she stood to escort him back to the Floo. "Maybe next time you can bring Elisha. I'd love to meet her."

Rabastan smirked, once more. "I'd be careful what I wish for, were I you. She's a bit star-struck by you. You might never be able to get rid of her."

Hermione was all too aware of the wizards with whom she shared her home coming down the staircase just in time to catch a glimpse of her disappearing into the parlor with Rabastan. She was pretty sure that from their change in stride, she could already picture what expressions they wore.

By the time they entered the enormous room, it was to see Hermione drop a friendly kiss on Rabastan's cheek just before he vanished in the familiar crackling wash of green flames.

As she turned to face her husbands, Thorfinn asked, "What was he doing here?"

"He came to have a friendly chat over tea."

"By yourselves?" Antonin asked, arching a suspicious brow.

She rolled her eyes as she strode past them to leave the parlor, once more. "Oh, stop. He's perfectly content with the wife he already has, and we've made having a second spouse appear thoroughly undesirable."

When they didn't respond, only following her on steady, thudding footfalls, she found she could not help herself. "Will you two relax? It's not as though I'm going to run away with him. I mean, what's he got going for him, anyway? He's just charming, handsome, rich, witty . . . . Oh,  _wait_."

She flashed them an amused look over her shoulder. Antonin was shaking his head, but Thorfinn appeared as though he just might chuckle, if he were to let himself.

But then, Antonin paused, raising a hand to stroke his beard as he thought. "Hmm."

Hermione's brows drew upward as Thorfinn echoed the sound.

Shrugging, the dark haired wizard said, "I feel like having a drink. Would either of you care to join me?"

The witch and Thorfinn exchanged a glance before each surprised themselves—and one another—by nodding.

The three trooped through the vast house and into the drawing room in a strangely amicable silence. Antonin poured them each a glass of Fire Whiskey and they all settled comfortably on the sofa.

That pleasant silence continued as they all sipped their drinks.

Hermione found her shoulder pressing against Antonin's arm, and her head tipped over onto Thorfinn's shoulder. This was nice. But . . . . She took a sip of her drink. There was something strange to the peaceful hush that had fallen over them.

"Does this seem weird?" she asked in a low voice after several wonderfully serene minutes.

"Yes," her husbands said in unison.

"However," Antonin continued, pausing for a sip, "it is the longest we've all gone without sniping at one another. I almost feel compelled to not examine it."

Thorfinn chuckled. "I can't believe I'm going to utter these words without being grudging about it, but he's right."

She nodded, deciding perhaps they were right. They should let it go and not worry about why they were getting along, but rather simply enjoy the strange turn of events.

That was when Maia trotted into the room at a lazy gait. All three people seated on the sofa straightened up slowly in their seats as they watched her.

The calm loping of the beautiful cat wasn't odd, nor her random intrusion into the room. However, the large bird perched on her back as she strode past the wizards and witch certainly  _was_.

Stryx and Maia typically kept their distance from one another. The familiars' sudden closeness was a jarring and unexpected sight.

Swallowing hard, Hermione leaned forward to set her glass on the table. Her husbands followed suit.

"I don't understand . . . ." Then she remembered Rabastan's advice to try to get along with her wizards. "Oh, my God. Rabastan!"

Antonin furrowed his brow. "Not a collection of words I'd ever hoped to hear from your lips."

Even as Hermione snickered, Thorfinn slapped a palm against his own forehead—though his inclination was actually to reach across their wife and slap Dolohov. " _No_ , she means he did something to our environment—cast some sort of enchantment, probably—that's causing us to act this way."

Hermione turned, tipping her head back to look up at Thorfinn so that the back of her skull rested against Antonin's shoulder. "Oh, you were right! You are sharper than I've been giving you credit for."

Despite the realization of Rabastan's interference, which should've set them all on edge, the golden-haired wizard granted her a proud smirk and a lazy nod. "Told you so."

She knew she should feel angry with her _new friend_ Rabastan for his deceit and his meddling, but she found herself far too fascinated with the way Thorfinn's beard and moustache so perfectly outlined his lips. And, goodness, lounging against Antonin like this certainly was comfortable.

Was Thorfinn's face getting closer? It seemed to be . . . slowly drifting toward hers.

Both wizards jumped at the familiar, uncomfortable searing under their skin, clutching at their forearms and wincing.

Hermione was quite displeased to find herself jostled by their sudden movements, somehow ending up wedged between Antonin and the sofa. She flailed as the Death Eaters tried to get their bearings through the hazy fog in their heads.

Thorfinn was mystified by her sudden, seeming disappearance. "Princess?" He turned, alerted by the sight of a waving hand from the corner of his eye. "Oh."

Snickering, he latched his hand around her wrist and pulled her to sit right. That Antonin turned in time to see her straightening up and trying to blow a few wayward strands of her wild hair out of her face only irked her.

To her unhappy expression, he could only shrug. Really, it had all happened so fast, that by the time he realized he was squishing her, Rowle was already helping her up. "Apologies."

They all forgot what had caused the commotion, until the searing in her husbands' Dark Marks renewed, stronger this time. And they each stood from their seats on either side of her.

"Oh," Thorfinn said in a miserable grumble with a nod.

Antonin nodded in response. " _That's_  how that happened."

They were already reluctantly heading out to retrieve their cloaks and masks when Hermione finally stood. They were both pretty sure this pleasant feeling would fade as soon as they were out of the house, and neither of them really wanted to leave with this feeling still hanging in the air—especially with their wife not being of a mind to yell at either of them this way.

She trailed after them on quiet, careful footfalls, a sense of unease winding in the pit of her stomach as she walked to the parlor, awaiting their exit. It was not until they had what Hermione jokingly referred to as their  _work attire_ —another of the little jests she had with herself to keep from losing any sanity over her status as wife to a  _pair_  of Death Eaters—and were about to step through the Floo that she understood the unpleasant sensation.

Thorfinn surprised her, swooping in for a goodbye kiss that thoroughly distracted her from her thoughts. She didn't know if he was taking advantage of the lingering effects of whatever sort of slick enchantment Rabastan had cast, or advantage of her current, mildly-scattered state, but kissing him back was nearly instinctive, and somehow she was in the air, her feet dangling a few inches above the carpet.

Just when she thought she needed to breathe, he pulled back and set her down on the floor.

Before she could collect her thoughts, Thorfinn had turned away, giving Antonin a snide look before stepping through the wash of green flames in the fireplace.

"He really thinks I won't follow that up?"

Antonin's very seriously-voiced question caused her to look up at him—she was still a little dazed from the culmination of the last twenty minutes, or so. Well, it certainly seemed that Thorfinn was daring him, but clearly Antonin would not allow himself to be deterred by the younger wizard's antics.

Catching Hermione's chin with gentle fingertips, he leaned down, letting his warm breath whisper across her lips before kissing her in a reverent, almost chaste manner . . . yet it stole her breath, as surely as Thorfinn's kiss had.

As he pulled back, he was pleased by the flare of color in her cheeks. Yet, realizing both he and Thorfinn had been summoned reminded him quite suddenly of the mysterious presence in the corridor when he'd returned so late that other evening.

He should've thought on it sooner, as Caster was so certain the ghost of Augustin Selwyn did not leave the cellars.

"If anything happens while we're gone, call for the elves, immediately."

Hermione nodded, swallowing hard. His tone was even, and his face gave away nothing of what he might be thinking or feeling, just now. She wasn't certain she understood his warning, outside of the fact that she had no wand, and elf magic was formidable, especially if needed to protect their mistress.

Then, he, too, was gone. Standing by herself in the enormous parlor, that feeling of ill ease crept back into her awareness. And she remembered the reason for it—the reason which Thorfinn's swoon-worthy snogging had knocked from her brain for a bit. She was also acutely conscious that the pleasantness from whatever mischief Rabastan had pulled was well and truly disrupted, which only added to her unsettling sense of apprehension.

Certainly, the elves were here, and the familiars, but it was  _different._

For the first time since she'd stepped from that fireplace and into her new  _home,_  she was alone in the massive, ancient house.

Hermione gave herself a shake. She was braver than this, for pity's sake, wand or no wand, and nothing malicious had shown itself in this house. She was going to occupy her time alone by diving back into her explorations and research to help her nightly visitor.

Nodding to the empty room, she started across to the parlor entrance. Despite her assertions to herself that the icy nervousness trickling through her was utterly baseless, she still called for Maia to accompany her through the house.

The large, sleek, feline faithfully trotted up to her to keep pace at her side. As she headed toward the unfamiliar portions of the estate, she ignored a distant wondering of why it never occurred to her to mention the nightly specter to either of her husbands.


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter Eight**

Hermione drew in a deep breath and let it out slow. She stood, staring at the door to Selwyn Hall's cellar. Trying to steal her nerves, she clenched her hands into fists at her sides.

Oh, she was being silly, wasn't she? She nodded. This was her home, dammit. And she was a witch! Unsettling sensations, or not, she should not fear any part of this place.

All right, she was going. She was opening that door . . . .

Exhaling through her nostrils, she turned her head to look at Maia. At the same moment, the massive feline met her gaze.

"I know there's got to be something down there, because that's where Augustin's cries come from. And he'd never hurt me. I'm just being ridiculous, aren't I?"

Maia gave the witch an expression that, were she human, would amount to her arching one eyebrow in answer.

"Of course, I am," Hermione said in a whisper.

Squaring her shoulders, she stepped to the door and finally pulled it open. She was braced for the rush of stale air that billowed out to greet them, though it wasn't the most welcome sensation.

Forcing a gulp down her throat—oh, she _was_  just being utterly ridiculous, wasn't she?—she lifted the lantern she'd prepared before her and held it through the door to examine the staircase. Silly as it seemed, these steps hadn't been used in who knew how long. A hell of a thing it would be to find they were in disrepair by having them crumble beneath her weight.

No such luck. The stone staircase looked perfectly sturdy. Her shoulders slumped a bit. Had she really hoped for something to deter her from this?

"Oh, for pity's sake." She shook her head at herself as she realized what the problem was. "D'you know what my issue is, Maia?"

The cat blinked up at her.

"I haven't got a wand. The lack of a weapon is making me edgy. Not very brave of me, is it?"

Maia snuffled and poked her nose toward the staircase.

The witch rolled her eyes at herself. "You're right, I am stalling. All right. Here we go."

Gripping the railing with her free hand, Hermione started down the stairs. Maia moved at a measured pace beside her, and the young woman could not believe how much the cat's presence helped settle her nerves.

That made sense, she supposed. Cats were in tune with the world in a way humans simply weren't. If Maia turned around and ran, Hermione knew to follow. There would be  _no_  sticking around and seeing what made her leave, not without a bloody wand.

Blind and stupid bravery was for armed people.

Her footfalls against the stone echoed dully in her ears, and she could swear the staircase went on longer than it should.

As they reached the bottom, Hermione lifted the lantern. Casting her gaze about as she came to a halt at the foot of the steps, she let out a low breath.

Things were everywhere. Bookcases wreathed in cobwebs, trunks of varied sizes—some open, some closed, others, still, with their lids haphazardly hanging off—armoires with cracked gilt edging. Not to mention the dangerously stacked piles of gold and silver adornments. It looked as though any time a style of lantern, candelabra, or so much as a bloody napkin ring went out of fashion, they were simply tossed down here rather than sold or disposed of.

Dear Lord, the Selwyns'd had a kind of wealth that nearly turned her stomach. Though, admittedly, her fingers did itch with the desire to start fishing through those bookcases.

Swallowing hard, she gave herself a shake. "Focus, Hermione." Moving across the floor, she picked her way through various fallen antique knick-knacks. "Okay, Augustin. Let's try to find something about you."

Just then, Maia nipped at her fingers.

"Ow." The witch snatched her hand away, but knew better than to admonish the cat—she was a familiar, after all, and they didn't do things like that for no reason. "What is it?"

Maia turned her head, giving an exaggerated sniff. She trotted off, deeper into the recesses of the cellar. It suddenly seemed as though the cat was as invested in the search as her companion.

Hermione followed along, trying to keep focus on Maia's trail. It wasn't terribly easy with the lantern's light glinting off things here and there, catching the corner of her eye.

Maia stopped so suddenly that Hermione nearly tripped over her.

"Oh, sorry," she said in a low voice. Raising the lantern, she looked about this section of the cellar.

She hadn't needed to look far. Only a meter from them, propped against a wall—not even properly hung, how insulting—was a portrait. " _No . . . ."_

In the frame before her, snoozing at the moment, was her nighttime visitor. "Augustin?" She hadn't realized there was a small, relieved laugh in her voice, or that she had pressed a hand to her heart as she spoke.

Stirring at hearing his name called, he opened his eyes. Upon seeing her, he immediately straightened up. Those now so familiar blue eyes widening, he opened his mouth.

Yet, as Hermione watched his lips move, no sound came out. That wasn't right. Perhaps the portrait was damaged?

As she moved to examine the heavy gold frame, however, he gestured wildly with his hands to get her attention.

"What?"

The image of Augustin shook his head—she could only imagine he knew what she'd assumed. Darting a glance about, he let out a sigh that was quite visible, despite being inaudible. He gestured, again, this time with only one hand, to mimic the waving of a wand.

Understanding instantly, now it was Hermione's eyes that widened as she gasped. "A silencing charm!"

His shoulders dropping, Augustin nodded.

Hermione was dumbstruck. She'd never heard of anyone doing such a thing as silencing a portrait. She could only think of one reason someone would stoop to such an odd measure.

She felt her eyes fill with an unexpected wash of tears and the tip of her nose sting as she asked, "It's so you can't tell anyone who killed you, isn't it?"

Those familiar blue eyes, barely diminished for the cross-stitch pattern of the canvas, grew sorrowful. A frown tugged at the corners of his mouth as he nodded.

"I'm going to gather that the only time you're strong enough to manifest outside this painting is at night?"

Again, he nodded.

"Why don't you just tell me who did this to you? Why do you still cry? How are you able to touch me when you appear in my room?"

His face fell and his eyes grew wide, once more, at the rapid-fire questions that fell from her lips.

With a little gasp, Hermione clapped her hands over her mouth. Wincing, she eased them down to her chin, speaking over the tips of her fingers. "Sorry, got carried away, there. But really? How and why?"

He smirked, something self-deprecating about the expression, as he mouthed slow and careful words.

She features pinched as she watched. Then, her brows shot up as a small smile she couldn't help curved her lips. "Did you just say 'it's a long story?'"

Augustin visibly laughed as he nodded.

Hermione laughed, as well, a light and strangely relieved sound. It was oddly heartening to see that even someone in his position could crack a grin.

Stepping closer to the portrait, she reached out. Her gaze locked on his, she pressed her hand flat against the canvas.

For a strained moment, he only stared back at her—she thought he looked as though he might cry at the gesture. But he mimicked it, pressing his hand to the other side.

"We are going to have an _actual_  talk tonight, aren't we?"

His lips folded into a firm, grim line as he nodded.

Letting her eyes drift closed, she dropped her forehead gently against the canvas. Though she couldn't see it, she felt rather certain he met the gesture with a kiss.

* * *

Antonin frowned, a heavy sigh rumbling out of him as he cleaned his tools. Not that torturing the Dark Lord's enemies for information on this or that bit of obscure knowledge was anything but old hat—the serpentine wizard had become obsessed with learning  _anything_  new, as of late—but Antonin found he did not enjoy his work, as he once had.

Dropping the bloodstained cloth on the floor, he aimed his wand at it. " _Incendio_."

Rabastan's nose crinkled at the odor of burning fabric. Common procedure with Antonin Dolohov, of course, but that hardly made it a pleasant smell. Blame Antonin's strangely hands-on approach to caring for his tools, he supposed—anyone else would simply spell them clean.

Thorfinn stomped into the room behind him, his broad shoulders slumped and a weary expression on his face. "Bloke was telling the truth. Nothing more in the house than what was in this room."

Antonin nodded, his dark eyes oddly lackluster as he watched the dwindling flames.

Frowning thoughtfully, Rabastan looked from Thorfinn to Antonin before dropping his gaze to the floor and nodding. "Are we going to ignore that you both seem to have lost enjoyment for your work?"

The wizards in question shared a quizzical look. They each knew Rabastan was correct, it was simply that neither of them had realized until he mentioned it.

Thorfinn's mouth puckered as he considered it. "Huh."

"I wonder why that is," Antonin said with a mystified shake of his head.

Arching a brow as he smirked, Rabastan once more looked from one to the other, and back. "Oh, you're both daft, aren't you?"

Again, the two shared a—albeit this time somewhat irritated—glance.

When they both still seemed confused, Rabastan could not help but laugh. And laugh. And laugh. Antonin let out a rumbling sigh, while Thorfinn rolled his eyes.

As he finally calmed, sparing a moment to wipe at the corners of his eyes, Rabastan said, "It's because of Hermione, you fools."

"What?" they asked in unison, neither quite sure what Hermione could have to do with anything.

God, they both really were so bloody daft, weren't they? Fighting to keep in another chuckle—which was probably a good idea, as Thorfinn was starting to look ready to hit something—Rabastan held up his hands in a placating gesture.

"Look," he finally said, though he was smiling, still, "before she was forced into your lives, all you really had to focus on was your service to the Dark Lord. Believe me, I understand. Now, being in love, you don't see as much point to—"

"In love?" Thorfinn echoed, his eyes wide in disbelief and a hint disgust edging his tone.

Antonin, on the other hand, winced. He had already suspected his own feelings, however, having the witch's _other_  husband feel the same way was either fantastic grounds for nurturing compromises . . . or the perfect trigger for making their home environment even more spectacularly awkward and uncomfortable than it already was.

At the larger wizard's protest, Rabastan's shoulders slumped and his head tipped to one side. "Spare me. You're both so stupidly smitten it's almost sad."

Thorfinn scowled, opening his mouth with what neither of the other men doubted would be a vehement denial, but Antonin cut him off with likely the only thing that could diffuse the situation.

"You said you understand, so I take it you're speaking from personal experience?"

With a charming grin, Rabastan nodded. "Of course, I am. What's more, just this afternoon, after returning from tea with Hermione, I received some rather wonderful news from Elisha."

Something in his tone tipped off his brothers-in-arms. Thorfinn breathed out a short, surprised chuckle. "No!"

Shrugging, Rabastan again nodded. "I'm going to be a father."

Antonin returned to packing away his tools as he said over his shoulder, "I say this calls for a drink!"

At that moment, a dull thud caused them all to look across the room. The body of their interrogatee had at last slid from the chair in which he'd been sitting and hit the floor.

"Huh." Thorfinn's brows drew upward as the other two sighed. "Suppose we'd better see to  _that_ , first."

* * *

By the time her husbands returned from their summons, it was well after midnight. That was a relief; it meant neither of them would think to disturb her. Not that she was nearly as uncomfortable around either of them as she used to be, anymore—Antonin proving to her how talented his tongue was, and Thorfinn shagging her in his arm chair had seen to that—but after the way they'd bid her farewell before leaving the house, and the strangely relaxed and languid lull that had settled over them prior to that, she wasn't quite certain how to face either of them, just now.

Especially not when her head was currently so full of someone else. She knew her feelings for both of them had changed, but it was not a thing she could focus on, right now. Maybe that wasn't fair to them, but she didn't see what more she could do about it. Hermione'd never been very good at putting aside puzzles, and she was going to mull over Augustin Selwyn until he figured out how to help him.

She was so wrapped up in her thoughts that the nightly wailing that tore through the house caught her off-guard.

Swallowing hard, she shook her head. All she needed was to wait out that mournful sound. Closing her eyes, she shook her head. Even knowing he wasn't still so sorrowful didn't ease the way his cry seemed to pierce her heart.

"I truly hate that I make you so sad."

Hermione's eyes snapped open at the sound of his voice. "Oh, no." She stood and crossed to him. This was perhaps the most real moment she'd had with him—knowing, _honestly_  knowing, that he was there before her. " _You_  don't make me sad, what's happened to you does. There is a difference."

His brow furrowed, and he gave that same self-deprecating smirk she'd seen from his portrait in the cellar. "If you say so."

Frowning and shaking her head, she slipped her hands around his. She pulled him with her as she backpedaled to sit on the edge of her bed. Unlike all those previous occasions when he'd popped into her room, he seemed reluctant to sit beside her.

With a heavy sigh, she tugged him down next to her. "Honestly, you're being ridiculous, now."

"Sorry. Only . . . the more effort I put into being around you like this, the shorter time I have to be around you."

Her shoulders drooped as she let out another sigh. "That's why you've never said much."

Augustin nodded.

"Okay, so I'll whittle my many questions down to just one, for now." Holding his gaze, she asked, "Did Vera really murder you?"

He dropped his attention to her hands, still wrapped around his. "No."

Hermione's bottom lip poked outward in a thoughtful pout. That didn't make sense. From the obviously feigned, afterthought-evident journal entries she's made, Vera seemed very guilty. If she hadn't committed the crime, that could only mean . . . .

"But she knew who did?"

Once more, Augustin nodded. "Her father. The date of my death is a bit off, actually, it wasn't on our wedding night. It was some weeks later . . . . When  _he_ was certain Vera was carrying a Selwyn heir."

"That's horrible."

Biting his lip, he shrugged. "They were of a lesser noble house. He wanted my family's name, and our wealth, but he did not want  _me_. Vera was as much a victim of his scheme as I was, she hadn't known what he intended to do. But she felt responsible." There was a sudden damp sheen in his blue eyes as he went on. "She couldn't bare for me to try to speak to her after that; hearing my voice only reminded her of what her father had done. So, she put a silencing charm on my portrait."

"That's horrible, I'm sorry." Hermione knew that barring actively dispelling the enchantment, it should've broken upon Vera's death. Clearly the witch had done something a bit more powerful than a typical silencing charm.

"Oh, it gets worse," he said in a feigned jovial tone. "That pitiful sobbing you hear? Back then, it was all I had the strength to do. I didn't even have the strength to leave the cellar until recently—and until you appeared, no real reason to try, either."

A half grin curving her lips, she averted her gaze. She ignored the feel of a blush flaring in her cheeks.

Augustin cleared his throat, forcing himself to focus on speaking. "Just as she couldn't bear to hear my voice from my portrait, she could not bear to hear my ghost wailing. Shortly after our child was born, she invited some guests over—cousins of mine, in fact—for a dinner party, and to see the baby." He drew in a deep breath and let it out slow. "The child was asleep in someone's arms, and Vera excused herself. It was the last anyone saw of her. She simply walked out of the house, off the grounds, and . . . . No one knows what became of her, after that day."

Hermione's brow furrowed. "You feel like you drove her away."

"Not certain there is any other way to see that."

His voice got willowy on that last word, and he forced a gulp down his throat.

"Don't have much more time tonight, do we?" she asked.

He shook his head.

He'd been comforting her since the night she'd arrived. Out of sorts, and feeling more alone than she'd thought possible, and he'd appeared to her. He'd held her until she fell sleep and calmed her agitation with the simplest touch.

Relinquishing her hold on his hands, at last, she shifted back on the bed to lie down. When he turned to watch her with a questioning expression, she held her arms out to him.

Augustin hesitated.

"C'mon," she said with a frown, patting the hollow of her shoulder. 'You've held me until I've fallen asleep. I'll hold you until you can't keep your form, anymore."

Pressing his lips together in that grim line, he nodded.

He crawled across the bed and settled beside her. Wrapping his arms around her, he settled his head against her shoulder, as she'd indicated.

The witch sighed, her arms circling him, as well.

Augustin knew that aside from the occasional respite he got while joined to his portrait, ghosts didn't sleep. Yet, for a moment there—as her fingers reflexively combed through his hair—he could swear he felt himself drifting off.


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter Nine**

Hermione stretched as she sat up and looked about her room. Of course, Augustin was gone—she'd thought she had felt him fade away while she'd fallen to sleep, but had been too tired to really notice at the time.

Swallowing hard, she shook her head. She still wasn't quite certain what to think about this whatever-it-was she had with him. He was a bloody ghost, for pity's sake! And she had not one, but  _two_ husbands to contend with, as it was. If she and Augustin were friends, that was fine, she didn't think she could—or should want to—handle more than that.

But thinking of him as merely a friend felt hollow and untrue.

It really didn't help matters that, after recent events, when she thought of Antonin or Thorfinn, her heart seemed to skip a bit and she felt a sweet, heated stirring low in her body. Considering the circumstances behind her union with either one of them, she'd almost forgive herself if she fancied someone like Augustin Selwyn. Ghost, or not, he was caring, intelligent, and handsome. All right, upgrade that to gorgeous, but appearances notwithstanding, the person she was coming to know beneath that was someone well worth knowing.

And it broke her heart, just a little, that her feelings were so confused, right now. She needed to help him, and that outweighed anything else, but part of her wanted to be selfish—wanted him to stay, for her. And she had the feeling he would agree to that, if she asked.

Perhaps that was why she hadn't found a way to mention him to Antonin or Thorfinn. Whatever existed between her and Augustin was something that was hers,  _alone_ , that way.

Which was precisely why she hadn't told him she was looking for a way to release him from his ties to Selwyn Hall. He might suspect, but she would not tell him, outright. They could go on, pretending forever could be real, right up until he could move on from this world.

Sniffling, Hermione gave herself a shake.

Oh, this was ridiculous. She had to wash up and get to the dining room for breakfast. After Thorfinn's hissy fit the other day, Caster refused to serve meals unless all parties were at the table.

She didn't want to be on the receiving end of her husbands' displeased looks, should she be a reason to delay food getting into their stomachs. And there it went—the stupid little  _thump_  in her chest, and that warm tingle zipping through her at the mere notion of walking into a room to find both their gazes on her.

Rolling her eyes at herself, she made her way to the bathroom. "Dammit, Hermione," she said in a hissing whisper as she shook her head.

Just when she thought things could not get more complicated.

* * *

She'd been hoping for conversation, or . . . an argument, maybe? Anything to distract from thinking about her own, confused, feelings as she sat at the table, picking at her meal.

The relaxed moment between the three of them yesterday afternoon—not to mention the way they'd bid her farewell before departing to answer their summons—only further served to highlight just _how_  confused her emotions were. As if this thing with the bloody house ghost didn't do that enough?

They were her enemies, she was supposed to hate them. This forced sham of a polyandrous marriage was not supposed to have altered that. And yet, it had . . . .

No, that wasn't quite right.  _They_ had.

Swallowing around an unexpected lump in her throat, she reached for her coffee. She somehow managed a quick sip, though she wasn't even certain if the warm, mildly bitter liquid eased that bit of tension as it went down.

Hermione lifted her gaze from her plate, considering both of them, in turn. Just as she'd been doing, they were each staring down at their food.

And . . . . "Dear God, Thorfinn. What did you do to your face?" Honestly, she had noticed when she'd first walked into the room, but the difference hadn't actually registered on her until just now.

He looked up, a startled gleam in his blue eyes. "What?"

Antonin sighed and shook his head. "She means the sudden absence of beard."

"Oh." The Viking of a wizard—who looked _slightly_  less Viking-ish without his facial hair—shrugged and returned his attention to the food before him. "I just shave it every so often, is all. We just . . . haven't been together long enough for you to have seen me do it, before."

She couldn't believe she felt a smirk curving her lips as she, too, dropped her gaze back to her plate. "I haven't seen you without a beard since Hogwarts."

Antonin refrained from rolling his eyes. Another reminder that those two had some sort of a history, together. Oh, goodie!

"I had one, then . . . ." Thorfinn shrugged, once more. A hint of pride showed in his expression. "Or rather, was at least capable of having one, then. The faculty was rather insistent I keep a clean shave while I was in school."

She furrowed her brow as she finally picked up a forkful of eggs. "Why?"

He snickered. "Because I'm damn-near two meters tall, and have been since I was sixteen? They were concerned over having what looked like a grown man as a student."

Hermione nodded. She could only imagine the nightmare he'd had trying to squeeze into those school desks after his growth spurt had finished.

This was it. This was why. They kept reminding her that they were more than just faces on the other side of the War, more than just names she'd learned to fear or hate.

They were both so complicated, and she found herself wanting to learn more about their individual complexities. She wanted to know how to comfort each of them when they were upset, or know what their favorite beverage was after a long day—aside from the obvious answer of Fire Whiskey, of course.

But she didn't like thinking about this. She didn't want to think about this. And the silence that wrapped the table, once more, after Thorfinn had quieted, didn't help.

There was some uncomfortable tension between the two of them that was palpable. Honestly, she thought this must've been how Antonin had felt before his outburst the other day.

Of course, she wasn't certain what her response would be if it turned out the wizards were acting funny because _they'd_  snogged.

"Okay," she said, feeling her skin positively itch with the awkward air in the room. Throwing her napkin on the table beside her plate, she said, "What is  _with_ the two of you today?"

Though Antonin and Thorfinn didn't turn their heads in one another's direction, they did exchange a glance before both lifting their gazes to her. Antonin opened his mouth and shrugged, but nothing would come out.

Thorfinn squared his jaw and shifted uncomfortably in his chair. But then, unable to hold it in with her looking at him so expectantly, and Rabastan's words from last night running circles in his head, he pointed his finger at Antonin. "He's in love with you."

Hermione felt her face fall and her eyes grow wide.

Bearing his teeth in what was almost a feral expression, the dark-haired wizard turned in his seat to glare at Thorfinn. "So are you!"

She honestly didn't think her brows could climb any higher up her forehead as she looked from one, to the other, and back.

"Oh, please," Thorfinn said, his face souring. "You're so much further off the deep end than I am, and we all know it."

"My feelings are my own to—"

"How . . . incredibly kind of you both to toss it around like some sort of vile accusation."

They both snapped their attention across the table to lock on Hermione, then. She'd tipped her head downward a bit, lowering her gaze to her plate, once more. But even from their angles, they could see her disheartened expression.

Why? Why did she care that they weren't happy about their feelings? Hadn't she been just as displeased with herself to think about her changing emotions toward them? Of course she had been! So, why then was her throat tight over this? Why were tears gathering in her eyes at the thought of them each vehemently trying to put distance between themselves and what they felt for her?

Forcing a gulp down her throat, Hermione shook her head. She supposed she should take comfort in the idea of them all being in similar positions, but . . . .

Blinking hard, she pushed away from the table and stood. Aware of their attention on her, she ignored them utterly as she turned and stormed out of the room.

Antonin shot Thorfinn a withering glare.

Rolling his eyes, the younger wizard held up his hands. "I get it, my fault." Puffing out his cheeks as he exhaled, he stood from the table and followed after her.

Watching him leave, Antonin sat back. A frown tugged at the corners of his mouth. It was probably a bad idea letting Thorfinn go talk to her when she was already upset—the last time one of them had approached the other like this, they'd ended up shagging, for pity's sake.

To be fair, he hadn't behaved much better when she'd come to him after _he'd_  been upset. But he also knew he couldn't try to prevent it, either.

Her dynamic with Thorfinn was far more explosive—and not in a fun way. If he didn't allow them time and space to sort things between themselves, it was only going to make living in this situation harder to bear than it already was.

* * *

Thorfinn supposed he should not be surprised to find her in the library. But, he  _was_  surprised that she did not have her nose stuck in a book. Instead, she sat by the window, staring out. In the reflection against the glass, he could see her unhappy expression.

He opened his mouth to speak, but she cut him off.

"You know, there are times when I think 'why can't I just let go and allow myself to enjoy whatever I'm feeling in this moment?' Only . . . ." Swallowing hard, she shook her head. "I'm too aware of the moment that will follow. I'm too aware of our situation. And, so, I can't help but wonder if what any of us feels is genuine, or simply our brains trying to make the best of things."

A sigh rumbled out of him as he crossed the room. Settling on his knees beside the witch's seat, he looked up at her. "I'm sorry I made it sound like a punishment to feel that way about you."

She shrugged. "It's all right, I suppose. At least it was honest."

"No." Frowning, he shook his head. "I mean, yeah, sure, honest, but that doesn't make it all right."

Hermione turned her head to meet his gaze, but remained silent.

"Thing is," he said, with another head shake, "you have to understand, Dolohov and me? Well, we're a couple of idiots."

She folded her lips inward, but only barely held in a snicker.

He held up his hands in a placating gesture. "C'mon, you've talked to us. You know it's true."

Flicking her gaze toward the ceiling in thought, she said, "Well, I don't know that I'd say that."

A smirk curved his mouth. "Every time things seem not so bad, every time they seem like maybe this all can work out,  _somehow_ , one of us goes and cocks up the whole bloody thing." His brightened expression faltered. "I never would've thought I'd consider it this way, before, but . . . doing, or saying, things that make you look at me like you hate me? Feels pretty damned idiotic to me."

She uttered a half-laughing scoff. "Well, to be fair, I don't suppose I've handled things any better. Logically, I know you weren't offered a choice in this. Just like me, you're here whether you like it, or not. But, in a way, that only confuses me, more."

"Whoa. Something that confuses you? We should mark this date on the calendar!"

With a shake of her head, she swatted him on his shoulder. "Seriously. I know I don't feel the same toward you, anymore. I can't hate you like I used to. Lord knows, I want to. But I need to acknowledge that my feelings are changing, and while, technically, it is your fault—"

"What?" His brows drew together at the blame.

Hermione shrugged. "You know, for showing me you're  _human_ , and not  _all_ bad, and all that."

Thorfinn nodded. "Oh, that. Well, I could try to keep that under wraps, if you'd prefer."

She frowned. "Again, seriously. Shut up."

"Sorry."

"As I was saying, I need to acknowledge that how I feel is changing, and maybe . . . . Maybe Rabastan was right. I need to give you a chance, without trying to place blame. In that respect, I suppose I'm not dealing with my feelings any better than either of you two did, just now."

He arched a brow. "So you—you really don't hate me, anymore?"

She searched his gaze with her own before answering. "No. I wish I still did. It would make things easier, but I don't hate either of you, anymore."

"Either of . . . ?" The golden-haired wizard scowled. "Oh, you certainly know how to ruin a moment, Princess."

For a few, quiet moments, she merely stared at him. She shifted in her seat, aware of him watching her movements with caution.

Leaning close, she let her eyes drift closed as she brushed her lips over his.

Perhaps he was seeing more of an invitation that was there, but he moved to sit on the floor as he slipped his arms around her. Thorfinn pulled her from the chair and down, into his lap.

When she pulled back enough to look up at him, he asked, "Was that all right?"

She gave him a strangely shy half-smile as she said, "I . . . was actually sort of hoping you'd do something like that."

Grinning, he lowered his head back to hers.

Just as she parted her lips for his kiss, the horrid jangling sound of someone arriving by Floo tore through the house.

Groaning, she dropped her head down against his chest as he tipped his face up to stare daggers at the ceiling. "If that's Rabastan, I'm going to murder him."

Hermione shook her head, even as he stood with her in his arms, and then set her on her feet. "Not if I do it first."

"Oh?" He arched a suggestive brow while leading the way out of the library. "Wanted to let me have my wicked way with you that much, did you?"

A blush flared in her cheeks, her lids fluttering as she rolled her eyes. "I may have been considering it, if you must know."

Their jovial, flirtatious mood shattered in a blink as they neared the bottom of the staircase and saw Antonin in the parlor entryway. The dark-haired man was down on one knee with his head bowed.

_Oh, no_ , the witch thought, feeling a cold knot of dread form in the pit of her stomach.

She exchanged a glance with Thorfinn—it put her at ease a little to see that he did not look particularly thrilled with what this meant—before they continued to the foot of the steps. He walked ahead of her, and, the moment he saw who waited before the fireplace, he too, went down on bended knee.

Squaring her shoulders, Hermione forced a hard gulp down her throat and steeled her nerves. She pushed herself to walk, striding carefully to the entryway to stand between her husbands.

She knew perfectly well who their guest was. And she would remind him, again, that she would not be cowed. What a sight she must make, she thought, her two, dark wizard husbands kneeling on either side of her as she stood, tall as she could make herself and clad in fineries that would make Narcissa Malfoy blush with envy.

He meant her to wallow and suffer. She would show him that she was, instead, flourishing.

Arching a brow, she met the serpentine wizard's gaze unflinching. "Tom. To what do we owe the pleasure?"


	10. Chapter 10

**Chapter Ten**

Hermione could swear she felt Voldemort's delight oozing into the very air around them as she asked Caster to bring  _their guest_ whatever he required. She knew from the moment she'd laid eyes upon the creatures in her new, forced-upon-her home, that their presence was a deliberate decision on the Dark Lord's part. Really, how could she think otherwise, given that the elves were the ones who would be punished, should she try to grant them freedom.

She sat with her back perfectly straight, her shoulders even—intentionally the picture of calm grace, despite the icy churning in the pit of her stomach.

However, even as he grinned broadly while listening to her give orders to a house-elf, she knew he was displeased. She was not the downtrodden, broken creature he was hoping to see with his Death Eaters when he'd stepped through the Floo.

She knew there was a chance that, like their elves, her husbands might be punished for this. Hermione could only hope that Voldemort did not believe she cared enough for them that such an outcome would make any difference to her.

"I trust you are settling in well, Hermione?" Voldemort said, looking strangely comfortable as he sipped his tea. "Your husbands are making you . . . happy?"

The witch fought not to wince at the barely sheathed venom in the Dark Lord's voice. She could tell that Thorfinn and Antonin, seated on either side of her across from their master, were tense enough for all four of them. They barely touched their tea, and Hermione thought maybe she should've had Caster sneak some liquor into the cups. Then again, she dreaded the thought of not having her wits entirely about her with their present company.

"Tom, let's not pretend you're concerned for my happiness or well-being, in any measure." Oh, she still did get a little thrill of visceral joy from the way he flinched whenever she called him Tom.

Setting his cup down against its saucer, he looked startlingly sincere as he shook his head. "On the contrary, your well-being is very much a concern for me."

She thought she must've reacted, then, a drain of color in her cheeks, or the slight widening of her eyes, because he smiled broadly in response. Though there was little comfort in it, it only confirmed that she'd been right, all along.

Her life—at least for now—was in no danger from the Dark Lord. He might have been keen on the idea of his followers breaking her mind or her spirit, but there was something he needed that required her continued existence. Her continued— _physically_  healthy—existence.

Not wanting to ponder  _that_ notion any further, she shot to her feet. The abruptness of the motion drew the attention of her husbands, but she was not paying either of them any mind, just now. Her own attention was fixed, still, on the serpentine wizard who held her very existence in the grip of his bony fingers.

"If you will all pardon me, I think I'm a bit tired. Good day,  _Tom_. I'm certain my husbands can see you out."

As she stepped from behind the table and started across the room, she pretended she did not hear Voldemort's barely-veiled chuckling at her discomfort. She also pretended that, as she slipped out the door, she could not hear his chuckling die away in favor of reprimanding Antonin and Thorfinn in a lethal sounding whisper she could not quite make out the words of.

She ignored the jab of guilt, telling herself they could've received a much worse punishment than a few hissed, angry statements. Not that it mattered, she'd go to her grave before she got on bended knee—physically, or metaphorically—in front of the so-called Dark Lord.

* * *

"You've been here this entire time?"

She looked up at the sound of Antonin's voice. Hermione had no idea what sort of picture she made, curled up in a corner of the sofa, staring aimlessly ahead as she held a bottle of Fire Whiskey by the neck.

Okay, so perhaps she'd been more jarred by Voldemort's visit than she'd let on. Frowning, she lifted the bottle and looked at how much she'd had.

"Oh," she said in a surprised whisper, her brows drawing upward. _That_ was why he looked a bit fuzzy around the edges. "Yes, here I am. Looking for me, were you?"

Smirking at the slur lacing her words, he stepped into the study and crossed to stand before her. "Actually, yes. Caster had conniption, you missed dinner."

The witch laughed, covering her mouth with her hand when the laugh ended in a little, bubbly hiccup.

Antonin folded his lips in a tight line, so as not to chuckle at her inebriated state. But . . . . Bloody hell, she was adorable.

"Why didn't you come looking for me sooner, then?"

Sighing, he shrugged as he took a seat beside her. "We thought you were upset by the Dark Lord's visit and had closed yourself off in your room, or in the library. But then, when it came time for dinner and you weren't in either room . . . . Bloody elf almost didn't serve the meal, but we convinced him to simply save you some, instead. It's in the kitchen if you—"

"Thank you, but I'm not hungry."

He met her gaze with a serious expression. "Not hungry, or worried putting food in your stomach might take the edge off your stupor?"

Narrowing her eyes at him, she pointedly took a long swig from the bottle.

"The second one, I see."

She made a loud smacking sound with her lips as she pulled the bottle from her mouth. "So nice that I've got a husband who knows me so well."

Antonin tipped his head back, an appraising look in his eyes as he observed her for a moment. When she lifted the bottle, once more, he shot out his hand.

Hermione jumped a little at his fingers closing over hers, holding the bottle away from her. "Antonin? What are you—?"

"Pretty sure you've had enough. Actually, pretty sure you've had enough for  _Thorfinn_."

Frowning, she relinquished her hold on it, watching as he set the bottle on the table. "How dare you make a decision for me?" She climbed to her feet. "Isn't it enough that I . . . ?"

He arched a brow, standing just in time to catch her as she swayed in place.

She looked from the finger she'd been wagging almost aimlessly in his general direction to his face. "Oh, thank you."

"Looks like it's time to put you to bed."

"Now, see here," she said, the words drifting and her voice listless as he scooped her up in his arms. "This is exactly the sort of thing I'm talking about. I've had . . . I've had just about enough of this."

"Have you, now?" he asked, trying—and failing—to hide a grin as he turned and walked from the room.

"Yes. I can't . . . I can't remember the last time I made a decision for myself." She put her head down against his shoulder, pouting as she let her eyelids drift closed.

"Oh, I don't know." He glanced down to make sure he didn't miss the first step as he started up the staircase. "You've made a fair few choices that were all yours."

"I mean about my _life_ ," she said, a vaguely whiny edge to her voice that made him chuckle. "I mean . . . look at it? Did you know—did you know that if I was a normal Muggle girl, I'd have no idea the Wizarding War had even happened?"

"Is that so?"

She nodded, but didn't lift her head. "It is! I'd be doing whatever I'd been doing before. But, here I am, prisoner of the enemy. Married to his minions."

"Yes, yes. Tell me, again, how we've made life _so_  terrible for you."

At that, she did lift her head, glancing about to see that he'd reached the second floor landing. "Now that's not fair, don't put words in my mouth."

"Oh? So you mean you weren't going to say that?" He knew he should stop. The alcohol was having that truth serum effect on her, and she might end up saying something that he knew her sober, guarded self would not dare utter.

"No, I wasn't. You're not—you're not terrible, neither of you." She blinked hard a few times, pursing her lips in thought. "I told Thorfinn, earlier, but you, I didn't get to say it to you. I—I know you've had no more choice in any of this than I have. And I know I'm not as mean to you both as I was, but I also know I don't always make things easy on you, either."

"You almost sound apologetic," he said as he paused before her door.

She nodded as he nudged open the door with his foot. "I think I almost am, sometimes, anyway," she muttered, giggling. "You're both . . . you're not so bad. It's not your fault I'm miserable, you do try to make things better."

"Finally a word of acknowledgement for that, thank you." He snickered, crossing the room to her bed. She mumbled what might've been the words  _you're welcome_  as he placed her down atop the quilt.

But then, as he tried to slide his arms out from beneath her, he found she'd curled her fingers into his robes. He froze, aware how cozy she'd made herself in his embrace.

"Hermione, you'll need to let go."

"No."

His brows shooting up his forehead, he pulled back as much as he could to look at her. "No?"

"No." She repeated, nuzzling against him. "I'm comfortable, you're just going to have to lay down with me."

He made a pained expression. "I'm not certain that's a good—"

"Oh, just stop talking and get in the damn bed, Antonin."

The dark-haired wizard groaned and hung his head. "Fine, fine. Move over."

Grinning triumphantly, despite the sleepy look on her face, she shifted back, making room for him. Though, she refused to relinquish her hold on his robes.

With a sigh, he slid onto the mattress beside her. This was not at all how he'd imagined his first time sharing a bed with her would go. Not even when she snuggled against him and rested her head in the hollow of his shoulder.

As a sound of comfort worked its way out of the back of her throat, Antonin felt himself sag deeper into the mattress. Holding her so close, yet her being so very inebriated that he could not bring himself to do anything . . . . This, he decided, must be what Hell felt like.

* * *

He couldn't tell if a few minutes, or a few hours had passed when she stirred against him, but he was distinctly aware that—just as he began drifting off—the witch had lifted her head. The feel of her lips brushing his throat caused a zinging warmth to course through him.

Shaking his head, he slipped his hands around her shoulders and pulled her up. She looked vaguely dazed and sleep-rumpled as she stared back at him. Her gaze was clearer than when he'd carried her up here, that was certain, but he couldn't help his caution.

"You're still pissed," he said with a shake of his head.

Her attention fell to his mouth as she shrugged. "A little, maybe. But . . . ." She swallowed hard, unable to believe she was about to tell him this, yet it was true. How many times had she forced herself away from wondering about this very thing? "But I've thought about this a  _lot_ , especially since that day by the woodshed."

"Hermione, I—" He cut himself off as she tugged open his robes and brought her mouth back to his throat. He didn't even know how he was managing to form words with her raking her teeth along his skin like that. " _Merlin_ , you're making it hard to think."

She shifted on the bed, straddling him as she leaned against him. Her lips brushed against his as she spoke. "So, stop thinking."

"I'm going to hate myself in the morning," he said with a groan, giving into her as he started tugging her dress off her.

* * *

Hermione winced at the sunlight peeking through her bedroom window. Her head was pounding, but her body was tingling pleasantly. She recognized the delicious soreness as she turned beneath the quilt and stretched.

As her arm swept across the bed, she came into contact with someone.

Snatching back her hand, she looked at the other pillow. "Antonin?"

He stirred in his sleep, but didn't wake. The wizard muttered something and simply pressed his cheek more firmly against the satiny fabric beneath his head.

She sat up, not even bothering to hold the quilt against herself. What was the point? Last night came back to her in a rush of images and she buried her face in her hands.

She wasn't angry with him. She was angry with herself.

She'd used the alcohol in her system as an excuse to take a step she'd been afraid to while sober. She hadn't told either of them, but her thoughts had been fairly dominated by notions of inviting one of them into her bed. Especially in the wake of their bungled confessions of their feelings, yesterday, and what almost happened with Thorfinn in the library before Voldemort's unannounced visit.  _And_  the woodshed,  _and_  the armchair . . . .

If she closed her eyes, she could still hear the sounds of Antonin's rushing breaths in the quiet of the room; she could still feel the grip of his fingers digging into her hips as she rocked herself over him. The remembered sensation of him sliding into her and withdrawing again and again sent a delicious shiver through her.

She couldn't bring herself to wonder if Augustin had come into the room last night and seen them together. She was more than aware that he knew these wizards were her husbands, but neither of them had been in her bedroom before. That was bound to give the poor specter mixed signals.

Turning more fully toward him, she let her gaze wander over Antonin's sleeping face. She shouldn't have done that. She knew what he felt for her, but wasn't at all sure what she felt for him, not exactly.

Reaching out, she traced over his handsome features with delicate fingertips. The worst part, she thought, was that she certainly could fall in love with him.

And Thorfinn.

And Augustin Selwyn—a bloody ghost!

Again, she buried her face in her hands.

Antonin blinked open his eyes to Hermione choking out a sound of frustration. Frowning, he slid a hand around one of her wrists, tugging her hand down from her face.

She met his gaze, her eyes unexpectedly watery. She'd never been so confused in her life! Pulling her arm from his grasp, she once more shielded her face. She hated this—she felt like she'd been so strong this entire time, and now . . . .

"I'm sorry," she  _actually_ shouted, the words muffled against her palms as she let herself break down in tears.

"What? You're . . . ?" Antonin sat up. Pulling her into an embrace, he hugged her while she cried. She was sobbing, still shouting, but now her words were incoherent.

"What do you mean, you're sorry? Aren't I the one who should be—?"

The door burst open, then. A confused looking Thorfinn stormed in, his gaze landing on the bed. "What the bloody hell . . . ? Oh, dear Merlin, I'm  _blind_!" Snatching up the other wizard's robes from the floor, he tossed them at the man. "Put some clothes on!"

Antonin ignored the fabric hitting him in the face, in favor of comforting the crying witch. "This was not the time for—"

"Stow your excuses!" Thorfinn was not having any of it. "Why is she crying? What did you do? I know she was drinking last night, I saw the bottle—did you take advantage of her?"

Antonin shook his head, blinking rapidly at the fast-shot words tumbling from her other husband's lips. He could certainly appreciate how awkward wandering into _this_  particular scene must feel for Thorfinn. "I  _know_  what this looks like, but—"

"No, no!" Hermione dropped her hands, looking from one wizard to the other, and back. "He didn't take advantage of me. I— _I_  took advantage of me."

The men exchanged a glance before returning their attention to her. "What?" they asked in unison, both their faces marred by confused expressions.

"I had sobered enough to have control over my actions, but was still inebriated enough to do something I probably wouldn't have let myself, otherwise. I . . . I intentionally used my drunken state to give myself  _permission_ , and I'm sorry!"

Antonin darted his gaze about the room as he shook his head. "I don't understand. Are you apologizing for sleeping with me, or for feeling like you needed 'liquid courage' to do it?"

"The latter, I think." Closing her eyes tight, she frowned. "It's not that I didn't want to, it's that I shouldn't have had to give myself an excuse to do it."

"I understand, I think," he said, nodding as he climbed out of the bed and pulled on his robes—he barely refrained from rolling his eyes at the way Thorfinn melodramatically shielded his eyes from the sight.

"I also think you could use some coffee. I'll have the elves bring some up for you."

"Wait." Hermione reached out, catching his wrist as he turned away from the bed. "Are you . . . are you angry with me?"

His dark eyes widened as he met her gaze. "Oh, Lord, no. As I said, I understand. None of us have made this situation easy for each other, so . . . . No, I'm not happy you needed an excuse, but I get why. You, um, also, might want to get dressed."

Hermione frowned as she let his arm slip from her fingers. But then, as he turned and stepped from the room, she looked down at herself. Dear God, she'd just had this entire conversation with them—both of them—with the quilt pooled around her hips.

Swallowing hard, she looked up. Thorfinn still lingered in her room. He grinned at her, winking. "Don't cover up on my account."

"You're handling this awfully well," she said, purposefully crossing her arms under her breasts. She'd pretend she didn't enjoy the way his brows crept upward.

"I'm trying to be more pragmatic. But in all honesty, I'd probably be livid if _we_  hadn't shagged, first."

She uttered a scoffing sound as she rolled her eyes. "You wizards and your weird, perverted sense of pride. Can you please get me my dressing gown from the wardrobe?"

Thorfinn chuckled, shaking his head. "Yes, Dear." Maybe, he thought, as he crossed the room to do as she asked, just  _maybe_  this whole 'making the best of things' idea wasn't so bad, after all.


	11. Chapter 11

**Chapter Eleven**

Though the air of Selwyn Hall was much more relaxed that day than she supposed she had thought to hope for in the wake of one husband catching her in bed with the other—she'd swear if she wasn't in the situation, herself, she'd think she was completely mad, thinking something like that in a sane tone—Hermione was deeply unsettled by the time night fell. And it had precious little to do with the hints Thorfinn kept dropping that she needed to be fair and give them both an even playing field.

If she were to play into that argument, she'd have to point out to him that technically, he was only a _little_  behind Antonin, in that he had no equivalent for the so-called woodshed incident. But she didn't . . . . Instead, she smirked to herself and quietly ate her dinner. He'd been rather mischievous recently, and she wouldn't have put it past the lumbering Viking to duck under the dining room table and try to 'even the playing field' right then, and there.

But now, she fretted. As the sky outside darkened to a satiny black, dusted by twinkling starlight, she paced. Last night she'd been so caught up in Antonin that she'd not even heard Augustin's routine sobbing. She still couldn't recall if she'd glimpsed him entering the room.

Sighing, she let her head fall back and squeezed her eyes tightly shut. If he had, she could only imagine what an uncomfortable surprise that had been for him.

What if it made him not want to come back? Frowning, she set her head level and nodded to herself. If he didn't, then she'd . . . she'd just go down to the cellar and seek him out. Maybe he wouldn't even want to speak to her, anymore, but she had to try. If his feelings were hurt because of her, then she needed to at least apologize.

The thought of hurting him sent a painful jab through her chest.

She was so wrapped up in her own thoughts that his nightly wailing caught her off-guard. Jumping a little, she turned to face the door. Hermione braced herself for disappointment as she waited.

And waited . . . .

Swallowing hard, she pursed her lips, her gaze unwavering. She told herself she'd expected this. She'd known there was a chance—

Augustin appeared inside the door, then, drawing a startled gasp from her.

At her obviously flustered state, he frowned. "What is—?"

Before he even finished the question, she was across the room and throwing her arms around his neck in a tight hug. She was comforted by the feel of him returning her embrace.

"Why are you so upset?"

Sniffling, she shook her head. Her face buried against his neck, her voice came out muffled as she said, "Last night, I didn't expect to be with Antonin. I'm so sorry you had to see—"

He slid his hands up around her shoulders, pushing her back to hold her at arms' length. "No." Augustin shook his, holding her gaze. "I . . . I had a sense you were not alone in here, so I did not come in. I did not  _see_  anything"

Her brow furrowed. "You didn't?"

That lopsided grin of his curved his lips. "Our . . . relationship is complicated. I understand that. I may not be overly fond of them, but they are your _husbands_. It isn't as though I expect you never to be with them."

She was so relieved, the sensation caused tears to gather in her eyes. "I felt so terrible about it all day. I was afraid I'd hurt you."

"Oh," he said, a sad laugh in his voice. "I thought it best I not make my presence known, given that I could only imagine what was happening on the other side of the door."

"Augustin." Shaking her head, she dropped her arms down to slide around his waist. Hugging him tight, once more, she pressed her cheek against his chest. "I'm really, really confused. I don't know if I wish you were flesh and blood, or if I wish I'd never encountered you."

Again, he chuckled, holding her to him. "Oh, now that  _does_  hurt."

The witch laughed. "I just don't know which would be easier."

Augustin let his eyes drift closed as he, again, dropped his cheek down against the top of her head. "I understand. I am sorry, Hermione. I really only ever meant to comfort you."

She smiled, letting his presence have the same calming effect on her that she'd come to expect from him.  _God_ , why couldn't they have lived at the same time?

"I know," she said, her whispered voice so low he barely heard her.

For a few silent heartbeats, they merely stood there, holding each other. She fretted, again, worried that making him speak so much had drained him.

He laughed, again, a soft sound against the quiet of the room.

She pulled back enough to look up at him. "What's so funny?"

"You are worrying, again."

Hermione frowned, her shoulders drooping. "How did you know?"

Augustin smirked, and she expected to hear some wildly deep answer about having some secret insight into her feelings, or somehow being able to sense these things about her. Instead, he said, "You fidget when you're troubled."

"I fidget?" Her brows pinched together as she held his gaze. Not as though she was unnoticing of the habit, but she . . . . "Oh." She became aware, rather suddenly, that her hands against his back had been repeatedly curling into fists and uncurling, bunching her fingers into the fabric of his robes over and over.

"Sorry, I just . . . . I worried I'm tiring you."

That smirk melted into a more thoughtful expression as he examined her face. "You look tired, yourself. Shall we?" He swept his hand out toward the bed.

A little smile of her own played on her lips as she let him guide her across the room. As he always did, he sat on the bed, his back against the headboard. His hand on hers, still, he tugged her down to lay beside him.

There was such a strange, familiar comfort as she pillowed her head against his thighs. Not as though they'd done this a dozen or so times since she'd been sent to live here.

As ridiculous as it seemed, it felt more like something they'd been doing her whole life.

His fingers stroked her wild hair, tucking wayward locks behind her ear as he said, "Talk to me."

"About what?"

"Anything." Augustin smiled, his gaze on her sleepy face. "I may not have much more in me, tonight, and I like listening to you."

"Hmm . . . ." Hermione let her eyes drifted closed, diving into the first thing that came to mind—the story she'd spent those months carving into a wall at Azkaban. "Shortly before my twelfth birthday, I received my letter from Hogwarts. It's after the first day of school, so I was nearly a year older than my peers. I didn't think I'd make any friends. Even among Muggles, I was always a bit odd. But then, I met a boy named Harry Potter, whose glasses were _always_  broken . . . ."

* * *

Thorfinn stretched, just barely swallowing a yawn that undoubtedly would've been so loud, it would rival the house ghost's nightly bellyaching. He made his way down the corridor, trying to be quiet—he didn't need Caster coming down and scowling at him as he fixed himself a late-night snack. Nothing spoiled the appetite quite like an unhappy elf face.

He smirked and shook his head as he passed Hermione's door. Honestly, he had half a mind to sneak in there while she slept and gently lay himself on the bed. Oh, he could just imagine the look of surprise on her face when she woke up to find him there and had no recollection of how that had happened.

Chuckling quietly, he shook his head. No, even  _he_ considered that mean.

Then he heard it—just the faintest sound from the other side of her door. She was giggling.

Sinking his teeth hard into his bottom lip, he narrowed his eyes. Dolohov, that bastard. He knew he'd played it cool this morning, but if his brother-in-arms thought that meant he could just sweep into the witch's room whenever he liked—

Yet, the responding voice—though he couldn't quite make out the words—didn't sound quite like Dolohov. Maybe she was speaking to Caster, or Bridy?

Frowning as he arched a curious brow, Thorfinn stepped closer to the door. Quieting his breathing, he pressed his ear to the wood.

_"I was terrified! I'd_  never  _broken a school rule in my life, yet, there I was basically teaching these two fools how to break school rules_  and _how to get away with it!"_

A few seconds of silence passed as her mirthful tone died away.

Then,  _"You must really miss them."_

Alarm shot through Thorfinn at the unfamiliar voice from inside the room. Without a second thought, he threw open the door and stepped inside.

"Hermione, what the bloody hell is—?"

The witch bolted upright in shock and the dark-haired man beside her vanished before Thorfinn's very eyes. Faster than he could get a good look at the stranger.

"Dammit, Thorfinn! You scared him!"

Returning his attention to her, he realized nothing untoward could've happened, because his _wife_ was fully clothed. "I? I scared  _him_? I say again, what the bloody hell is going on here?!"

"So, what?" She was livid. Climbing out of bed, she stormed across the floor to glare up into his face. "Since this morning, you think you don't even have to knock, anymore? Do I not have the right to even the courtesy of privacy, any longer?"

He blinked a few times, shaking his head. "Well, yes. Of course you do—No! No!  _Don't_ turn this around. Who—or should I say  _what_ —the hell was that?"

Forcing a gulp down her throat, she folded her arms under her breasts. "That was . . . . That was Augustin Selwyn."

" _What?!_ " He was too upset to notice the way she winced at his raised voice. He wasn't even aware he was shouting as he went on. "The bloody house ghost is paying you late-night visits in your bedroom?!"

Her chestnut eyes shot wide at what he was implying. "Oh, it's not like that at all, and how  _dare_  you make it sound dirty!"

Scowling, he propped his fists on his hips as he bellowed, "How am I supposed to make it sound  _anything_ when I have no idea what the hell is going on!"

"Okay, okay," Antonin's tired, irritated voice cut in from the doorway. Though, he did give a start at the way both people in the room turned wrathful gazes on him at once. Looking from the witch to the wizard, and back, he said, "What the hell  _is_  going on?"

His brows lifting, Thorfinn held up his hands as he answered, "Seems our _wife_  is carrying on some secret something-or-other with the house ghost!"

Hermione tipped back her head to stare daggers at the ceiling. Groaning, she opened her mouth to speak, but Antonin's very confused sounding question cut her off.

"Our . . . she's . . .  _what_?"

"It's not what you think . . . well, it's a little what you think." She shrugged, forcibly stopping herself from fidgeting as she went on. "There's nothing tawdry happening, though. It's just we're friends, is all. And we have a—a kind of bond."

His brow furrowing, Antonin rubbed at his eyes with his thumb and forefinger. "Okay, okay." Thorfinn started to speak, but the dark-haired wizard held up a hand. "Ah, Thorfinn, stop. Hermione, just tell us what's going on."

"Fine." Sighing, she circled the room to her chaise and took a seat. Clasping her hands before her, she dropped her gaze to the floor. "I'd actually considered telling you both about him, several times, in fact. I just never had any idea how to broach the subject. The first night we heard that wretched sobbing, he appeared in my room. I thought . . . ."

Prompted by the lost look on her face—he wasn't heartless, after all, he was just angry and hurt that she was keeping something like this from him—Thorfinn echoed, "You thought?"

The witch uttered a sad little laugh. "At first, I thought I was half-asleep and had imagined him. He stayed with me until I fell asleep, he said he'd never let anything happen to me. He'd never let the two of you hurt me." She missed the glance her husbands shared at that. "All things I wanted, and needed to hear. I thought it was my own mind conjuring up some dream to give me the comfort I needed. But the more time went on, the more I understood that he was real."

"He's not just a ghost, though, is he?" Thorfinn shook his head, his features pinched in contemplation as he tried to understand, himself. "You were lounging _against_  him when I came in, you can't do that with a ghost."

"I don't really know how he can do what he does. I know that at night, he can manifest outside of his portrait and interact with the physical world. I've been trying to figure it out." She shrugged. "I even went to visit it when you two were on your mission the other night. I wanted to get answers to what—"

"Augustin Selwyn's portrait?"

Hermione nodded. "I remembered Caster saying how 'first Master of Selwyn Hall' stays in the cellars, so I thought if there were answers, I'd find them there."

"Take us to it." Antonin's tone was sharp and final.

She didn't like the sound of that. "You're not going to do anything to it, are you?"

He slapped a hand against his forehead. "No, of course, not. But we need to know what the hell is going on in this house."

Thorfinn nodded. "He's right. Even if I  _want_  to smash the bloody thing to pieces . . . you say he's your friend, and I know you'd never forgive me for that."

Something about Thorfinn's statement brought a little, quivering smile to her lips. "Okay." Sniffling, she nodded and stood. "Okay, I'll take you to it. But I don't know that it'll do much good."

"And why not?"

Hermione looked back over her shoulder at Antonin as she led the way out of the room. "Because his wife used some special charm on the portrait, keeping it silenced even after her death?"

Thorfinn's shoulders slumped as he let out a sigh. "Why is it everything we find out about this house just makes it creepier and creepier?" he asked as he followed along behind his wife on trudging footfalls.


	12. Chapter 12

**Chapter Twelve**

Thorfinn scowled, his eyes narrowing at the sound of feminine snickering. As Hermione led the way down the cellar staircase, he let out a sigh. He stopped, holding the illuminated point of his wand lower, taking her meager stature into account.

"What?"

Halting, she glanced from the corner of her eye at Antonin—who still looked ready to murder someone over his interrupted sleep—before turning on her heel to face the Viking of a wizard. "Well, I just find it humorous that you're so very . . .  _massive_ , but the idea of going into the cellar has you so obviously bothered."

His mouth twitched side-to-side as held her gaze. "I think I was raised in a family with a bit more of a respect for spirits than other wizards."

She frowned thoughtfully. Perhaps that was something do with his Norse heritage, she'd have to read up on that when she had some time—provided the library here had any volumes of the sort.

Antonin just barely held in a tired chuckle as he said, "Respect, or  _fear_?"

"Sometimes, they're one and the same." Thorfinn glowered at the other man as he nodded down the staircase. "Shall we continue on, unless you'd like to comment on how you're surprised I can step lightly given my shoe size?"

Biting her lip—she doubted Antonin would be pleased if she spent time talking about Thorfinn's,  _ahem_ , shoe size—Hermione held in a laugh as she turned and started down the steps, once more. She understood perfectly well they were all trying to lighten the mood a little, given that the cellar of Selwyn Hall wasn't a place _anyone_  wanted to be in the middle of the night.

She tried not to focus on how very much their surroundings made her wish for a wand of her own. There was nothing scary down here, she knew that, but that didn't stop the chill that coursed up her spine as she set her feet on the floor.

Squaring her shoulders and holding her head high—though, it didn't feel much like the effort was worth it, with how her husbands naturally towered over her—she reminded herself, once again, that her feelings were based solely on their environment. She gave herself a shake and continued toward the portrait.

As she drew nearer, the accompanying wandlight slowly illuminating the painting within the gilded frame, she kept her attention on it. The closer they got, the more of Augustin she could see, until her gaze locked with his.

He swallowed hard, those expressive blue eyes of his wide as he looked from her to her husbands, in turn, and back.

"It can't be . . . ." Antonin said in a whisper, shock in his tone.

A look of realization flickered across Augustin's face. He waved his hands frantically as he clearly mouthed the word _No_  several times.

Thorfinn shook his head, a mix of surprise and anger coloring his features. ". . .  _Corvus_?"

Hermione's eyes shot wide, an icy thrill rippling in the pit of her stomach. "Corvus? Corvus Selwyn?" she asked, glancing toward the man in the portrait, once more.

_No,_  Augustin said, again, but there was something strangely apologetic in his eyes as he shook his head.

Swallowing hard, she started to backpedal away from the portrait.

"Convenient that you're silenced isn't it?" the golden-haired wizard boomed. "Probably just some game you're playing to keep her from figuring you out!"

She didn't want to think that was possible. "I . . . I can't believe . . . ."

"Stop this."

Hermione started, looking about for the sound of the voice. A voice that wasn't Augustin's, but wasn't wholly dissimilar, either. Antonin and Thorfinn turned away from the portrait, as well, holding their wands at the ready.

"You can lower your wands, they won't do any good."

The wizards exchanged a glance. They didn't lower their weapons, though . . . not until the colorless, translucent form of Corvus Selwyn stepped into their line of sight.

Though the face and stature were  _very_  similar to the being she'd come to so care for, his appearance was nothing like that of Augustin Selwyn. He looked like the ghosts she remembered from Hogwarts.

"You're  _Corvus_  Selwyn?"

Meeting her gaze, he nodded. "And you two fools can stop yelling at Augustin. He's not done anything wrong."

The witch frowned, stepping up to Corvus. "Oh, don't you worry about them yelling at Augustin. You're going to have your ears full of me yelling at you!" His brows shot up and his jaw fell, but she was thundering on before he could say anything more. "What the  _bloody_  hell is going on?!"

Corvus looked at Thorfinn and Antonin. They both appeared confused, shaking their heads at him as they glanced from the ghost to the painting, and back.

The ghost's shoulders drooped as he walked around them, making his way across the floor to stand beside Augustin's portrait. "Whatever it is any of you are thinking, that's not what's going on."

Augustin, for his part, let out a visible sigh. Shaking his head, he wandered over to a plush arm chair in the background of his frame and took a seat. If not for the tension of the moment, the way he propped his elbow on his knee and dropped his forehead down against his hand would've been comical.

"You died on the _battlefield_ ," Antonin said, giving the ghost a once-over. "How the hell did you end up here?"

Corvus cut the wizard a harsh look. "Your question will wait. I owe Hermione an apology, _first_."

The witch recoiled a step. She honestly had no idea how she felt. She knew there was something about this that she hadn't understood from the beginning, but she'd never expected that Augustin might not  _be_  Augustin.

At her reaction to him, Corvus winced, his entire body seeming to slump. "Please, just listen?"

"Fine," she said with a shrug.

He nodded, dropping his gaze to the floor as he clasped his hands before him. "Everything we told you was true. It—"

" _We_?" Her brows shot up with the question.

Snapping his attention up to her face, he dropped his mouth open in a little  _O_. "I suppose I'd better start at the beginning and work my way  _up_  to the apology."

Hermione could feel the weight of her husbands' stares on her as she cleared her throat. "Yes, I think you'd better had."

Nodding, the ghost folded his arms across his chest, once more dropping his gaze from hers. "As a child growing up here, Augustin's crying each night largely went ignored. His story was known, the noise he made just accepted as part-and-parcel of living in Selwyn Hall. But I could never sleep through it. One night, after hearing—like you—that this was where Augustin stayed, I came down here."

She looked from the portrait to the wispy figure, and back. "You must've been startled by the family resemblance," she said, her soft voice reasonable.

He breathed a laugh, one corner of his mouth lifting in a smirk. "You could certainly say that. I was perhaps thirteen? So we didn't look as much alike as we do, now, but still, it  _was_  there. He was so genuinely surprised to see someone come down here, that for the first few moments, I thought he'd lost his voice from the shock. I realized that he was silenced, but I knew from his crying that it wasn't always so." Corvus bit his lip, shrugging. "So I waited until nightfall and saw him slip out of the portrait. He'd have the strength to do so, now, had we not been  _so_  jarred by someone barging into your room."

"Oy," Thorfinn said with a frown. "That is  _my wife's_ room, after all."

Hermione shook her head, holding back a laugh despite the situation.

Corvus' brows crept upward as he met Thorfinn's gaze. "Do we really want to discuss that I've been in  _your wife's_  bedroom more than either of you have?"

" _Oy,"_  Thorfinn said again, taking a step as Antonin raised his wand, a murderous look in his eyes.

"Stop it, all of you!" The witch stamped her foot, placing herself between her husbands and the . . . well,  _her_  ghost, she supposed. Not as though she expected many spells to do him any lasting harm, but they all needed to calm down. "I don't know  _what_ sort of dynamic you three had while Corvus was alive, but right now, he owes me this story, and that apology."

Antonin lowered his wand. Thorfinn rolled his shoulders, though he nodded.

"Corvus, if you would go on?"

Returning his attention to her, Corvus nodded. "When he appeared outside his portrait that night, we talked. He said it was the first time anyone had come to speak with him. No one . . . no one  _cared_. He was so lonely."

Sympathy pinching her expression, Hermione looked back to the portrait. Augustin's gaze was fixed on the floor inside the painting, his face pained.

Corvus shrugged, noting her glance with a sad smile. "It was the whimsy of a child, but I let him possess me so he could interact with the physical world, again. Became a bit of a nightly ritual. I was hoping that would sate his loneliness. And it did, for a time."

"But then?"

"Then I was called away from here to serve the Dark Lord." He chewed on the inside of his lower lip as he shook his head. "Oh, by the way, sorry about that whole snatching you from the Lovegood house thing. Just doing my job."

Hermione choked out a scoffing sound, taking a murderous step of her own toward him, then. "I _thought_  you looked familiar!"

In hindsight, they both felt ridiculous a moment later—she'd made a threatening move, and he'd held up his hands and backpedaled. As though she could physically hurt him. She avoided wondering if they'd both honestly forgotten that because of their nightly interactions.

"I  _said_  I was sorry. I was only doing what I was ordered to." Clearing his throat, he dropped his hands. "As I was saying, I was called away to serve. And then I . . . I died. But somehow, I guess because of those willing possessions, I was drawn back here after my death. The connection we'd established saw to it that at night, when he slipped from his portrait, we were  _forced_  together."

Hermione's compassionate nature won out over her anger. "That must've been uncomfortable for you, both."

"At first," he said with a nod. But then, he sighed. "We got used to it. The house was empty at the time, so it didn't matter. We knew we would need to hide once we heard the Dark Lord had granted Selwyn Hall to new owners, because when we're joined, we may as well be flesh and blood in certain aspects. No one would understand."

Again, she looked to the portrait—Augustin had raised his head, but did not stand, merely watching her for her reaction—and then to the ghost. "Then why did you two come to me? What changed your minds?"

That lopsided grin she now realized he and his ancestor shared curving his lips, Corvus again nodded. " _You_ did."

At the way she pouted, her shoulders slumping, both her husbands rolled their eyes. It was all they could do to keep from uttering sounds of disgust.

"These two acted like everyone else when they first heard Augustin sobbing—they were irritated, upset their sleep had been interrupted. But you." He let out a sad laugh and shook his head. "You felt sympathy for him; we could sense it. And, the next thing I knew, Augustin was moving us upstairs to find you. I'm sorry I didn't let him tell you what we were. He was worried that when you realized we were something that probably shouldn't exist . . . ."

Corvus dropped his gaze again, his face falling. "He was afraid you'd turn us away. _I_  am the one who made the decision to avoid your attempts to figure out what we are. I wasn't prepared to let him suffer through that. You're the only friend we've had."

Hermione clamped her hand across her mouth, covering a cooing sound. This time, she noticed the facial reactions of her husbands—she'd not seen eye-rolls so exaggerated since that argument in sixth year with Lavender Brown—but she chose to ignore them.

"I'd have understood. I might've had trouble, at first, with something I've never known was possible, before, but I would've gotten there, if you two had only been patient."

"Yes, well, we couldn't be sure of that. You're . . . ." He chuckled, raking his teeth against his bottom lip. "You're not quite like anyone else, you know."

She laughed. "Oh, believe me, I know. What about everything else?"

Corvus' brows shot up. "Everything else?"

"I've been researching how to free him—well, both of you, I guess—from Selwyn Hall." She clarified when his face fell. "So you don't have to be stuck here. I . . . I thought you'd be happy."

The ghost gave a half-hearted nod. "Oh, that?"

Hermione frowned, shaking her head. "What is it? Do you not want me to? Does he not want me to?"

Corvus looked toward the portrait at that. Augustin stood up from his chair and crossed to the foreground. He exchanged a glance with Corvus before they both returned their gazes to her.

"No," Corvus finally said, his expression serious.

"No?" she echoed, confused.

"No. He doesn't . . . we don't want you to release us from this house." Smiling sadly, he said, " _We_  want to stay with you."

She gaped back at the pair of them, certain her heart might just burst from the way they were looking at her.


	13. Chapter 13

**Chapter Thirteen**

"He's a ghost, not a pet, Hermione," Thorfinn said when the three  _living_  human residents of Selwyn Hall had retreated back upstairs. Now, they sat on the floor of the parlor, rather informally, drinking the  _very_ strong cups of coffee poor little Bridy had dragged herself out of bed to make, despite Hermione's protests. "You can't just . . .  _keep_  him."

Clutching her mug in her hands, she rested it in her lap as she sighed. Meeting his gaze, she shook her head. " _Them_ —them, not  _him_." At the way he glowered over the correction, she merely arched a brow. "And I'm not talking about keeping  _anything_. This is their home, too. Who are we to try and force them out if they  _want_ to stay?"

Antonin, who'd been reclined with his head resting against the sofa, sat up, then. "Okay, okay. Let's look at this logically."

Hermione nodded, taking a quick sip of her coffee.  _Logic?_  Finally, someone was speaking her damned language!

The dark-haired wizard snatched his own mug from the nearby end table and took a long, quenching swig before going on. "Using our own situation as an example, I'm certain it's not lost on any of us that we've looked for the little things to keep us going. The odd pleasant moment, the meal that was so delicious you wanted to kiss the bloody elf, the joke we all got a good laugh out of—we've  _all_  clung to those. And we've all made concessions in the hopes of simply making the best of things, because we have no way out, haven't we?"

Though, the witch did very well understand what he was saying,  _logically_ , the implication inherent in his meaning did sting, some. She couldn't help that she reacted to that meaning, her spine stiffening as she swallowed a little too loud in the early morning quiet of the grand room.

Antonin's brows pinched together, unable to ignore the sudden tension in her posture.

"So, that argument the two of you had the other day about being in love with me . . . you're saying that neither of you could feel that way about me if we weren't in this situation?"

Thorfinn and Antonin exchanged a sudden worried—and mildly confused—look. "Well, Princess, you do have to realize that were we not in this situation, we likely wouldn't be in positions to feel anything toward you, at all."

"No, but . . . ." Dropping her gaze into her mug, she shrugged. God, this was stupid, she comprehended perfectly well what they were saying—she would not have the feelings toward them that she did if not for being forced into all of this—but understanding made the open acknowledgement no less harsh. She wanted to think, as most everyone did, she supposed, that someone could fall in love with her for who she was, not because they were making the best of a bad situation.

Sniffling, she cleared her throat, the sound awkward and notably uncomfortable. "I know all that, but . . . are you saying that if this were different," she said, pausing to shrug, "if we met in some other way—no war or disastrous battle in the Department of Mysteries, no past as bitter enemies, no being trapped together in a giant haunted house—that you wouldn't be able to feel the way you do about me, now?"

Antonin's shoulders slumped, his head hanging as he considered how to explain this to her.

Before he could, however, Thorfinn snorted a chuckle. "This sad fool over here? Are you kidding? I mean,  _me_? I can admit that you and I have always rubbed each other the wrong way, it'd have taken a lot of patience and forgiveness on both our parts in any other setting, but we'd have gotten there, I'm sure of it." He nodded in the other wizard's direction. " _This_  fool, though? Hell, he was in love with you before we even came here."

Hermione thought her heart might stop in her chest at Thorfinn's words. _Too_  aware of the feel of the air escaping her lungs, she turned her attention on Antonin. The man had rolled his dark eyes toward the ceiling, shaking his head as he let out a sigh. She'd known he'd had feelings for her, already, at the start of all this, but could he really have loved her back then?

"Thanks for that, mate," Antonin said with a sad laugh, his tone resigned.

"Antonin?" she said, her brows lifting. She waited for him to meet her gaze before she asked, "Is that true?"

Shaking his head, he put every effort into not turning a lethal glare on her  _other husband_. "I was really hoping to never have to explain this, but he's telling the truth."

She looked at Thorfinn, who shrugged and averted his gaze. The Viking took a sip of his coffee, though Hermione rather thought he might just be attempting to hide behind his mug.

When she returned her attention to Antonin, he frowned. "Perhaps we should return to my original point?"

Setting aside her own mug, she shook her head. "No." She reached out, placing her hand on his knee. "Explain  _this_ to me, first, and we'll go back to that."

Those broad shoulders of his slumped as he looked at her fingers, resting against his leg in such a delicate gesture. "After that night in the Department of Mysteries, I was . . . shocked to find out someone had survived my curse. So I tried to learn more about you. The articles in the Prophet about your exploits, any time that little shit Malfoy started going on about you . . . . It was like I committed the details to memory, without even meaning to. I was fascinated by you. I suppose, as always happens with things like that, I'd built you up in my head. Some beautiful, unattainable thing."

Hermione furrowed her brow as she listened. She didn't think she'd ever heard his voice sound like this, before. Almost a tone of whimsy that seemed so at odds with his serious nature.

"When the Dark Lord ordered us into this, I thought . . . finally, I could see you for whoever it was you really are. I'd get to debunk everything I'd built up about you, replace it with fact. Hell," he said with a short, mirthless laugh, "maybe I'd even dislike the person you were under all my fascination. But then, from the first moment I was actually  _with_ you, I was introduced to this woman who was so much more than anything I could've imagined of you. And somehow, in a blink all that fascination shifted to . . . ."

Her jaw had dropped open, her fingers tightening on his knee without realizing as he'd talked. "Shifted to?"

He placed his hand over hers. "Well, to the very thing you were treated to Thorfinn and I arguing about the other day. So, I suppose I could say I've been in love with you for quite some time, now. The only thing that's  _actually_  changed is how real it was."

She had to remind herself to breathe. There was something in the weight of his dark-eyed gaze, then. It reminded her, strangely, that they were not alone. And that he'd only told her this because of her own sloppy, emotional segue.

Pulling her attention from him, she looked to Thorfinn—who'd resorted to pointedly twiddling his thumbs in front of him as he flicked a glance from Antonin to Hermione, and back over and over—and then cleared her throat. "I'm sorry I sidetracked the conversation. You were trying to get at something, Antonin?"

"Not at your knickers, he's already been  _there_ ," Thorfinn said in an amused stage whisper.

Scoffing, she slapped her Viking on his too-firm bicep. "As have you, now shut it."

Antonin chuckled in spite of himself, shaking his head. "What I was alluding to was the idea that perhaps the Selwyns are not as enamored of you as they believe themselves to be—they  _do_  care for you, that much is clear, but they may have exaggerated that in their minds because it makes their situation livable."

Her brows shot up at the term.

He shrugged. "So to speak."

"I suppose that does make sense." She was saddened to think Antonin could be right, but she knew it was possible.

"And in any case," Thorfinn said with a shake of his head, "it's not right to leave them stranded here if they can be released. If it's possible, and there's a way to let them move on from here, then we should do it. If, when it's their own decision, they  _want_  to stay here, then . . . then I guess we'll just consider them part of the household. Fair enough?"

Retrieving her coffee, she took a long sip as she thought it over. She'd originally been the one wanting to release them, of course, but  _now_  . . . .

"I'll talk to them, try to get them to see the points you've made." Hermione nodded. "Tonight, so Augustin can have a voice." When both of her wizards looked at her funny, she shrugged and tacked on, "So to speak."

* * *

After catching up on sleep, and spending the rest of the day perusing the shelves in the library of Selwyn Hall with Antonin and Thorfinn, Hermione waited in her room. She paced, stating what she intended to say to her ghosts over and over. Different ways, different tones, yet, each try made her wince and shake her head.

She wasn't certain  _any_  way of saying it was going to make the idea seem palatable to them.

But then . . . the time Augustin's sobbing typically filled the corridors of Selwyn Hall came and went in perfect silence.

He never appeared inside her room.

There was no dismissing the forlorn gnawing in the pit of her stomach as she checked the hour. Confirming that it was later than it should be, she gave herself a shake. It wasn't as though she didn't know where he was.

Fetching herself a lantern, Hermione exited her room and made her way through the house. Though, she wasn't a fan of the too-large mansion in the dark of night, she thought she was becoming strangely accustomed to nocturnal wanderings, by now.

As she pulled open the cellar door, she paused, taking a deep breath. She could already imagine the sad look in those blue eyes if he— _they_ —thought for even a second she was trying to get rid of them.

Exhaling, she gave herself a shake and started down the staircase. She refused to think on the idea that Antonin could be right. It was horribly selfish of her, she thought with a small, self-deprecating grin. She wanted the Selwyns' feelings toward her to be entirely genuine. She wanted them to stay. Most of all, she wanted them to  _want_  to stay . . . .

If she managed to free them from the house and they changed their minds . . . . Biting her lip, she paused as she stepped from the stairs.

How silly that she was tearing up.

Collecting herself, she started across the floor toward the portrait, though she already knew she'd find it empty. What she did not expect was that she did not see the joined form of them nearby.

A pout tugging at her lower lip, she looked around. The crowded piles of carelessly discarded antiques down here made for perfect hiding places, but she wasn't about to duck around the cellar, guided by only the illumination of her lantern.

Setting it down, she sighed. "Augustin? Corvus? Please come out, I know you're down here." Well, she  _hoped_  they were, anyway.

For a heart-sinking moment, she received no answer. Then, footfalls sounded from somewhere in the depths of the cellar.

She waited for the figure to step into the light before she asked, "Where were you tonight? You worried me!"

Selwyn—it was far less complicated to think of them as a singular entity—lowered his gaze, a twitchy frown playing on his lips. "We . . . we weren't sure you wanted to see us after finding out our secret last night."

Her shoulders slumping, she walked directly up to him, forcing him to meet her gaze. God, he looked so sad, it tore at her heart. "You are daft, aren't you?"

His brows shot up.

"I told you that once I had some time with it, I'd be okay. I told you I understood why you felt like you couldn't tell me."

"I suppose I'm shy after being along so long; I worried you would take the first opportunity to shut me out."

A small, watery grin curved her lips. "Augustin's words?"

He nodded. "But we are sort of in agreement on that."

She snickered, giving a nod of her own. "You're my friend, as far as I'm concerned,  _both_ of you. I don't turn my back on my friends so easily."

Selwyn let himself smile at that. Reaching out, he took both of her hands in his own, his grasp delicate.

Hermione let her eyes drift closed as he dropped his forehead down to press against hers.

There was a blissful few heartbeats of silence before she reminded herself—reluctantly—that she needed to speak to them. Opening her eyes, she simply observed his face, so close to hers. So very serene in this moment.

She tried not to think about the future just now, the possibilities were far too heartbreaking.

"I know you both said you wanted to stay here, to . . . to stay with me," she said, painfully aware of the weight of his gaze as he opened his eyes. "And I want that, too, I do, but . . . . It's not right that you're forced to be here."

He lifted his head, but kept his eyes on hers. "What are you saying?"

She forced a smile. "It's been brought to my attention that if you were free to make your own decisions, you two might choose differently. If you were able to move on, you might decide you aren't so content staying here, not even for me."

Selwyn opened his mouth, but she just as quickly slid one of her hands from his to press her fingers over his lips.

"I can't bear knowing that you might be here simply because you have no choice in it. If we find a way to break your connection to this house, and you decide to stay, it would make me  _so_  happy." She searched his gaze, her own eyes watering. "But you have to understand that I can't let you go on like this if there's a way that you won't be _forced_  to exist here. Were our roles reversed, wouldn't you want the same for me?"

His face fell as she let her fingers slip from his mouth. "Of course. But . . . we're worried, still."

"If we break your connection to Selwyn Hall, it may break your connection to one another?"

He nodded. "We don't know if we'll be able to exist like  _this_ , should our connection be broken. We'd exist separately, the same sort of flimsy spirit, barely able to conjure a touch, as any other."

"But . . . if you don't let us try, you'd be stranded here if I'm ever made to leave Selwyn Hall." She didn't know what might become of her once Voldemort had fulfilled the plan that clearly relied on her. He might kill her, or simply chuck her back into Azkaban. If she and the Selwyns could keep each other company, then she imagined  _anywhere_ would be livable.

Selwyn smiled, though it was a pained expression, those blue eyes swimming as he lifted his free hand to cup her face. "We won't be able to do this, anymore, if that happens."

Sniffling, Hermione drew in a shivering breath. "I know, but if it means you're  _free_  . . . ."

He forced a gulp down his throat, nodding. It seemed they were having a conversation amongst themselves before he said, "We know. Suppose, then, we'd better do this while we're still able."

"Wh—?" Her question was cut off by Selwyn's lips crashing down over hers.

Closing her eyes against a sudden wash of tears, Hermione slipped her arms around his neck, holding him tight as she kissed him back.


	14. Chapter 14

**Chapter Fourteen**

"There you are."

Hermione barely even jumped at the sound of Thorfinn's voice. "You two really . . . ." She let out a yawn. "Really need to change up what you say when you trip over me."

He snorted a chuckle, walking up to her. He'd expected she hadn't slept much last night, but he truly hadn't thought he would find her at the top of the cellar staircase, sitting inside the open doorway.

She was practically stuck to the doorjamb, which was the only way there was enough room for the massive wizard to settle beside her on the top step. He looked at her face, finding her gaze cast downward, into the depths of the cellar.

She also appeared to not have slept a wink all night—he was becoming rather accustomed to spotting when she was exhausted before she gave any outward signs.

His broad shoulders slumping, he let out a sigh. This couldn't be easy for her, he knew. Dolohov was right, there were all clinging to the bright moments to make their situation livable, and for her the Selwyns were just that, something bright. Something worth clinging to. He might not like it very much, but that did not mean he didn't understand it.

As he opened his mouth to speak, he suddenly lost what he wanted to say. She'd caught him off-guard with the way she shifted closer to him just then, dropping her head onto his shoulder. Shagging he was fine with, general displays of affectionate closeness like this, however, he really was  _not_ at all used to.

Clearing his throat, he started again. "How did it go?"

She drew in a shaky breath and let it out slow. "We spent the whole night talking—which isn't easy for them, because once they've expended too much energy, they're forced to separate and Augustin is sort of . . . shoved back into the portrait. It's sad, actually. When it happens, there's this lost look on Corvus' face for a few seconds, like he—like he doesn't know what to do with himself."

Thorfinn shrugged, laughing a little at the way it caused her head to roll against his shoulder. "He probably doesn't. They spent time adjusting to being a single being, separating might be jarring for both of them. At least for those first few moments, while they get their bearings, I'd imagine they  _do_ feel lost."

"Did you know him well when he was alive?"

"As well as I know any of my fellow Death Eaters, I suppose. He was rude, spiteful, callous . . . ." He shook his head, realizing voicing all of past-Corvus' flaws was probably no different from listing his own. "From what I've observed, he's not the same now as he was then, if that's what you're asking."

She frowned thoughtfully. "Do you think death changed him?"

Smirking, he tipped his head, resting his cheek against her hair. "No. I think you did. Well, you and Augustin. It's obvious that one's been a good influence on him."

Her brow furrowed as sorrowful grin curved her lips. "You really think  _I'm_  part of what changed him?"

"Sure. You've changed Dolohov and me; it's just what  _you_  do, apparently."

She couldn't help but let out a sleepy giggle at his feigned tone of resentment.

"But we're sidetracking," he said, clasping his large hands in front of him. "How did they take the news?"

Hermione sighed. "They understand what we're trying to do, and why. They won't fight us on it. They're worried, of course, at how it could change the existence they've come to know. And . . . ."

His brows drew upward.

She yawned. "And they say when the decision is theirs to make, they're not going anywhere."

"Not surprised. Dolohov wasn't wrong about the possibilities, but it's obvious from the way the Selwyns look at you. You're probably stuck with them for life."

The witch leaned back, meeting his gaze. "You think so?"

Thorfinn grinned, winking at her. "There  _are_ worse fates, I suppose. But, c'mon, let's get you to bed."

"Um, okay, I—"

Without a word of warning, he scooped her into his arms and stood.

"Thorfinn, put me down!"

"You're exhausted, Princess. You're not going to make it two steps before you fall down, dead-asleep on the floor."

Grumbling, she rested her cheek against his chest and clasped her hands in her lap. "Honestly! You should know I'm already bored of getting carried about the house."

Her Viking snickered. "Well, stop leaving yourself in states where you can barely walk, and maybe these things will happen less."

She let out a tired laugh. Despite her protest, however, she was fast asleep in his arms before he even reached the staircase.

* * *

Antonin arched a brow as he saw Thorfinn make his way up the stairs, carrying the lightly snoring witch. Catching the other wizard's eyes, the Viking carefully shifted his hold on her to press a silencing finger to his lips.

The dark-haired man frowned but nodded, forcibly returning his attention to the book open in his hands. He continued along the path he'd been wandering toward the sunroom. Though he was less than thrilled about it, he was rather sure that—after the way things had turned out when  _he_  had carried her up to bed—he'd better avoid the upper level until he was positive it was  _safe_.

* * *

Hermione stirred, giving into a stretch, though she was reluctant to open her eyes. She was warm and comfortable, and she knew what she would see. It was simply difficult for her to believe, with their contentious past, that she could feel so secure snuggled against the side of Thorfinn Rowle.

She thought he'd been well rested this morning, but clearly he was more tired than she had realized, because she could hear his rumbling, even breaths in her ear. Finally opening her eyes, she lifted her head to look at his face. She'd expected he'd have laid her in her bed and gone onto his day, instead, he was curled up with her, snoozing soundly.

Of all the ways she imagined Thorfinn winding up in her bed, she didn't think napping fully-clothed above the covers would be it.

Her entire frame slumped, seeming to sag into the mattress as she observed his features, so peaceful in his sleep. She was sure she'd never thought he could look like this.

Biting hard into her bottom lip, she shifted to rest her weight on her elbow, her movements delicate so she wouldn't jostle him awake. Her gaze on his slumbering face, she reflected on their earlier discussion.

She had not expected him to be so understanding and considerate of her feelings—even less so had she expected his understanding when it came to Corvus' and Augustin's feelings. Her wizards kept surprising her.

_My wizards . . . ._

A smile tugging at her lips, she traced over the golden scruff along his jawline with gentle fingertips. His beard was growing back, but she wasn't certain which look she liked more—he was just as handsome with it as without it, but the absence of facial hair did make him look so much younger.

"If you wanted to wake me with caresses, there _are_  better places you could touch."

That time, she did jump at the sound of his voice. She'd been so caught up in her thoughts, in watching the slow drift of her hand across his stubbly skin, that she'd not even noticed him crack open his eyes.

She met his narrow-eyed gaze with an embarrassed grin. "I actually wasn't trying to wake you. And, for the record, our physical interactions don't need any assistance. They happen quite often enough on their own without us helping them into being."

He scoffed, rolling his eyes. "Good God, witch. Must you always be so reasonable?"

Hermione snorted a giggle, shaking her head at him. "What I mean is . . . I think we could probably work on our emotional bond a bit more. We still bicker far too much."

Thorfinn shrugged, folding his hands behind his head and letting his eyes drift closed, again. "Says you. I like to think that spark between us is fine the way it is."

"I'm not saying there's anything wrong with our  _spark_ ," she said with a shrug. "But we do have genuine feelings for each other, too. What if—now, bear with me on this—what if that spark could actually get  _better_?"

He popped one eye open to look at her. "Go on?"

She laughed. "Well, the physical aspects of a relationship are always better between people who care for one another. I think we need to make more of our time together about just . . .  _being_  together."

His brows pinched together. " _And_  . . . I've stopped listening."

"Oh, you big, stupid Viking." She swatted at his arm.

He shot out his hand, catching her around her wrist. In one, smooth tug, he pulled her down against him.

Hermione snuggled into his side, resting her head in the hollow of his shoulder. She used her hand, still caught in his to guide his arm to wrap around her waist.

Thorfinn snickered into her hair, tightening his hold on her just a little. "Like this?"

The witch nodded, smiling. "Like this," she said in a murmur. "And then we just . . . talk."

"About what?"

Her brows shot up. "You really never did this with other girls you were with?"

He shrugged beneath her, a thoughtful frown on his lips as he shook his head. "Was never in love with any of them, before."

She clamped her hand over her mouth, quieting a shocked squeak.

"What was that?" he asked, amusement edging his voice.

Shifting her head against him to look up at him, she waited until he met her gaze before she said, "I'm the only person you've ever been in love with?"

"Oh!" He let out a booming chuckle at that. "Oh, you darling,  _thick_  little thing. Of course you are! Why d'you think I'm such rubbish at this emotional nonsense?"

She wasn't quite sure why, but his admittance brought tears to her eyes. Sniffling, she shook her head, trying to fight them off. God, she didn't recall being so emotional before all this. Must have been the result letting her other emotions back in after feeling nothing but anger for so many months.

"Princess? Are you crying?"

Swallowing hard, she shook her head once more. "No."

He laughed, holding her closer, still. "You're a terrible liar."

"Actually, I'm not." She brushed a kiss along his shaggy jaw. "I'm just terrible at lying to people who  _know_  me."

"I suppose that's some comfort, then." He smiled. "Can you just do one thing for me?"

"Thorfinn Rowle, my hands are staying  _right_ where they are."

The wizard let out another boisterous laugh—a sound she was pretty sure she was starting to love. "That's not what I meant, though it's not a bad idea."

She snickered, swatting his chest lightly.

"What I was going to say was . . . . Do you think you could perhaps find it in you to not so openly sass the Dark Lord when he visits? I thought sure he was going to  _Avada_ Dolohov and me on the spot for not doing anything about your attitude."

"Yes, but that's exactly why I do it."

"Trying to get us punished?" he asked in an admonishing tone. "You sly little minx, you!"

Again, Hermione laughed. "No, I mean I sass him because I _know_ he's got a reason for not doing something against me for being so disrespectful to him. I keep hoping that if I push him, he might let something slip."

Thorfinn nodded. "I suppose that makes sense. Might've let us in on your reasoning  _before_ lodging our hearts in our throats."

"Sorry." She sighed, pressing her cheek more firmly against him. "We never really talked about this . . . do you know why he did this to us?"

"We were told these marriages are an experiment. He's trying to breed Squibs out of the population, or something, by figuring out how to keep them from being conceived, I  _think_."

"You think?"

He chewed his bottom lip as he thought back on that discussion with the Dark Lord. "He said Squibs were caused by out of wedlock births, but it's got to be something more than that, doesn't it?"

Hermione sighed, shaking her head. There went that icy gnawing in the pit of her stomach she so hated. She must've shivered in response to the sensation, because Thorfinn pulled the quilt up over them, then.

"This is about  _babies_?"

Thorfinn shrugged, his eyes clouding over. "I'd have to think so. Would explain why he won't hurt you."

Once more lifting up on her elbow, she met his gaze. "Yes, and no."

"Yes and no?" he echoed, arching his brow.

"He has a whole slew of Muggle-borns he's married off to his followers. Dispatching _one_  shouldn't make a difference, and I'm sure none of the others are giving him the trouble I am."

She didn't like the way the expression on his face darkened further, still, as he weighed her words.

"So, again," she said, with yet another shake of her head, "why is he so intent on keeping  _me_  alive?"

Frowning, he pulled her down, hugging her to him, once again. She was right. Yes, yes, the Dark Lord had wanted her broken and wanted her to suffer mental and emotional anguish. When he realized that was not being accomplished, he should've done  _something_.

But he'd not lifted a finger against her. Not even a word of threat had he uttered.

Thorfinn nodded as she shifted to tuck her head beneath his chin. He tightened his arms around her. "Whatever happens, I won't let him hurt you."

Hermione closed her eyes, letting the sudden, frenzied beating of her heart be calmed by his assurance.


	15. Chapter 15

**Chapter Fifteen**

"Here, here!" Hermione hurried into the parlor, a book open in her hands. "I think this is—"

Her words were cut off by a violent thud. Shoulders drooping, she carefully closed the book, one finger between the pages to hold her place.

There Thorfinn stood, his expression almost grim, save for his raised eyebrows. Antonin, however . . . . He was stooped forward a bit, his hand still against—well, no, not against, _in_ —the wall. She could tell from the way he moved that he was exhaling angry huffs of air.

Given how he felt for her, she couldn't say she was surprised by this response.

"Oh, so I see you've heard about the little chat Thorfinn and I had earlier?"

Extracting his hand from the impressive dent he'd made, the dark-haired wizard dropped his arm to his side. He pulled himself to stand straight as he turned on his heel to face her. "Is that a flippant tone I hear?"

She blinked a few times in rapid succession, honestly uncertain what part of this mess had him like this. Hadn't he known at least part of his master's plan, just as Thorfinn had? They'd both been there for the Dark Lord's briefing on this so-called mission. But then, to discount his emotions would be foolish, perhaps he'd been too eager for the idea of marrying her that he'd not really paid attention.

Hermione shrugged, stepping further into the room. "Actually, yes. The Dark Lord's plan is  _not_ my current concern."

"Not your current . . . ?" Baffled, Antonin looked over his shoulder at his fellow Death Eater. Thorfinn still wore that same perplexed expression, only shrugging, as well, in reply. "Are you mad? Is that it? Has our situation finally pushed you over the edge of sanity?"

"No, and you really need to start explaining  _yourself_ , Antonin."

He barked out a mirthless chuckle, clasping his hands before him as he shook his head. Oh, this was just lovely—they'd both gone mad. "Do you not understand that you're in danger?"

It was all she could do to keep from rolling her eyes. "When am I not in danger?"

"Hermione—"

"No, honestly?" She stepped closer, pursing her lips as she stared up at him. "I am the brightest witch of my age, who also happens to be a Muggle-born, who  _also_  happened to befriend the one person in the world the new Lord of Wizarding Britain wanted to sway to his side, or kill if he couldn't, more than  _anything_. I'm the girl who nearly ended him. I've been in danger since the moment I set foot in the Wizarding World. So tell me, why  _now,_  should I be vexed about it?"

"Because for all any of the three of us knows, you might already be pregnant!"

Her brows shot up, and Thorfinn was struck with a sudden, near comical panic-stricken look that made her think he just might turn and run straight through a wall. Well, yes, that was a very good point, and lined up with the crux of said earlier discussion with Thorfinn.

"I hadn't thought about that," she said with a nod. Swallowing hard, she dropped her gaze to her feet. "But you're right. I've been  _with_ both of you, Lord knows neither time did we use any sort of contraception. In fact, I'd not put it past  _him_  to have charmed the pendants he put in our skin so any attempt at a charm or potion would fail."

"Well, shit," Thorfinn muttered in a scoffing tone. "She's right. If it was his goal, then he's not going to let any pesky little thing, like what any of us actually want, get in his way."

Hermione frowned, letting out a shivering breath as she shifted her attention to her abdomen. Pressing her hand to her stomach, she shook her head. "Whether or not I am—though, until we can get an answer on that, I think I'll refrain from anymore indulgences with our stock of Fire Whiskey—the truth is we can't do anything about whatever his plan is. So, I'm choosing to focus on things I  _can_ accomplish."

"We should check in with Rabastan." Antonin didn't like Hermione's pragmatic thinking, but she was right. Until they knew what they were dealing with, there was nothing any of them could do—and it wasn't as though they could very well come out and ask the Dark Lord why he wanted this witch who'd caused him so much trouble kept alive.

Her brow furrowed as she lifted her gaze, looking from Antonin to Thorfinn and back. Either this had to do with their situation, or that was the most non-sequitur interjection, ever. "About what?"

"Oh, that's right we never got a chance to tell you. Elisha is pregnant."

"He must be so pleased that he's going to be a father!" Immediately after the statement fell from her lips, she cringed. "Oh, but not so good for Elisha, I mean supposing this _is_  about babies, what if we're, well, for lack of a better term,  _disposable_  after we've had them?"

Antonin and Thorfinn exchanged a mildly horrified glance. How funny that a few months ago, they wouldn't have cared a wit about this sort of thing. Now, with Hermione— _because_  of Hermione—such a circumstance seemed utterly appalling.

"I hadn't considered that," Antonin said, shaking his head. "But we should warn him to be on his guard, to monitor closely everything the Dark Lord says, or does when he visits with them. Maybe he's already let something slip that will shed light on this."

Hermione nodded, ignoring the uncertainty twisting in her gut, just now. No, even if she were pregnant, she still had things to do. She wasn't going to go hide up in her room and fret on the chance she _might_  be.

"For now . . . ." She once more lifted the book she grasped in her free hand. "I think I've finally found a spell that can help the Selwyns."

Thorfinn arched one brow as he stepped toward her, eyeing the volume she held. "That book looks, a . . . a little dusty, there, Princess."

She snorted a giggle. "I'm not surprised. Wizards are loathe to outright destroy magical knowledge, but _not_  preserving a book with spells to do with ghosts and the otherworldly when the living in this house had gone so far to pretend their family's ghost doesn't even exist should come as no surprise to anyone."

"Fair point."

Delicately flipping the book open to the page she'd pinned down, she held it out to him. When he took it from her, overlooking the spell—hell, it wasn't a  _spell_ , it was a bloody ritual, intricate and energy-draining—she backpedaled. "Right, so if you two will prepare that, we can do it tonight, and finally get them their freedom."

Thorfinn glanced toward the windows. "Oy! It's _already_  night!"

"I know, I figured we could do it after . . . after they join tonight, not before."

"And were might you be running off to as _we_ do this?" Antonin asked, one of his brows arching, now.

Her face pinched in a sad little expression and he wanted to kick himself for feeling he wanted to tell her to go off and do whatever she liked.

"I thought I'd go spend a little time with them. Bid them a proper farewell, in case something goes wrong."

"You really do care for them, don't you?"

Hermione nodded, forcing a gulp down her throat.

Thorfinn answered for the both of them as he waved dismissively at her. "Go, already. We've got this."

Smiling, she couldn't help herself as she darted across the room, kissing each of her husbands on the cheek. "Thank you," she called over her shoulder as she ran from the parlor.

"Sweet Merlin, we're a couple of hopeless sods," the golden-haired wizard said with a sigh.

Antonin wore a soured expression, shaking his head as he turned his attention to the ritual they were to prepare. "Of that, I'm well aware, thank you."

* * *

"Corvus?" Hermione called as she reached the bottom of the cellar staircase. She could swear she saw a shadow move in a way that was almost an exaggerated fidget at the sound of her voice. Turning toward the motion, she saw him step out from behind a pillar.

She bit her lip on a grin, finding it strangely amusing that she'd clearly just caused a ghost to jump.

Shaking her head and sighing, she crossed the floor to stand before Augustin's portrait. The Selwyn in the frame wore that same sad, lonely expression that always broke her heart just a little.

She breathed in, long and shuddering, as she pressed her palm to the canvas. Augustin mimicked her gesture on the other side, a mournful half-smile curving his lips.

"What are you doing down here?" Corvus said, as he stepped up beside her. As his question hung in the air, however, before she could answer, he tacked on, "Oh, why do I have a feeling we might not like this?"

Her shoulders sagged at his tone as she let her hand slip down the canvas and drop back to her side. She knew they weren't ecstatic about the idea of being disconnected from the house, but they could be a tad less dower about it.

"I found a spell that should do the trick. Thorfinn and Antonin are preparing it, now." Hermione let out a sigh, meeting each of their gazes, in turn. "I've timed things so that we'll have a few minutes of you being, well . . . substantial before we go upstairs to where they'll be waiting."

Corvus tilted his head to one side, his gaze narrowing with feigned suspicion. "And why would you want that?"

Rolling her eyes, she looked at Augustin. He had two fingers pressed to his lips, barely holding back a laugh.

"You two are cute."

"Why, thank you," Corvus said, taking a sweeping bow. From the corner of her eye, she could see Augustin make the very same movement.

"And you've spent entirely too much time together."

" _Entirely_ ," Corvus echoed with a frown—she didn't need to glance at the portrait to know Augustin had also repeated the word the same moment Corvus had.

She smirked, shaking her head. Despite the levity, she could not ignore the heaviness settling in the middle of her chest. "But to answer your question, ever since getting to know you, I have worried that when this finally happened, something would go wrong. That we might not see each other, again. I simply wanted to be sure we could have proper goodbye before going through with this, you know . . . . Just in case."

"Should've figured," Corvus said, that adorable Selwyn half-smile playing on his lips. "So that kiss last night wasn't enough?"

She laughed, shaking her head. "Oh, don't. I mean, yes, that was  _quite_  a kiss, but . . . . More than that, if . . . if you can't join together again . . . ." Shrugging, she sniffled—she hadn't expected to be battling tears, though, with how connected she felt to the Selwyns, she supposed the sudden dampness in her eyes shouldn't be a shock. "This might be my last chance to even so much as hold your hand."

Both of their faces fell at her tone, but then—Hermione feeling terrible that she was causing them pain—a chill rent the air of the cellar. Corvus swayed where he stood, and before her eyes, the portrait's canvas gave off a faint, shimmering glow, only to have poor Augustin get practically launched from the frame.

She winced, backpedaling from the spectacle as he appeared to collide with Corvus. It seemed a somewhat violent process, and she couldn't bear to watch, averting her gaze just as a bright flash erupted from them, splitting the darkness of the room.

The witch could swear she felt a shift in the very air. Looking up, she saw Selwyn standing before her. He appeared a little winded—if he was alive, she'd think he was flushed from the effort.

Frowning, she shook her head as she stepped up before him. "Is it always like that?"

Selwyn chuckled, a quiet, breathy sound. "Pretty much. Suppose the upshot of all this is we won't have to go through  _this_ , anymore."

"That is true. I don't know why I was surprised by that, just now. I always figured you two being forced into a singular entity was a fairly traumatic thing." Though, now that she had them in front of her like this, she wasn't really certain what to say, or do.

She knew she had to go upstairs with them, but at the same time, she wanted to guard them from anything that might be unpleasant. The very notion was confusing, because their current state of being wasn't exactly pleasant, as it was.

Selwyn's shoulders slumped, his expression softening. "C'mon," he said, extending his hand to her. "We were under the impression you wanted to hold hands?"

Hermione let a half-smile curve her lips as she slid her fingers into his. But, at that contact, the first of her tears broke free to roll down her cheek. Sooner than she could stop herself, she was sobbing so hard, her entire body shook with it.

"Oh, no, no, no. C'mere," he said, pulling her into a tight hug.

"This is so stupid of me!" Her tear-thickened voice was muffled as she buried her face against his neck. "I don't even know why I'm crying!"

"I think I could wager a pretty good guess." He dropped a gentle kiss against her hair.

She nodded, merely hugging him back as she let herself sob like a terrified child. She had no control over her own fate, she _might_ be pregnant, she might lose the Selwyns—both of whom had become so important to her.  _Gee, Hermione, sure,_ no _idea what you've got to cry about, huh?_  she thought, uttering a sad laugh at herself.

"God, I'd miss you."

Selwyn nodded, holding her tighter. "Not as much as we'd miss you."

When she calmed, he slipped his hands around her shoulders and pulled back a bit, holding her at arms' length. "Oh, can't take you up there looking like that. Your husbands would find a way to kill us."

Hermione snickered in spite of herself, nodding. She found such comfort in the gentle sweep of his fingertips against her skin as he wiped her cheeks dry. "Well, Thorfinn would kill you. Antonin would hide the body."

"Provided we left one."

God, it felt good sharing a laugh with them like this. Drawing a calming breath, she exhaled slow as she nodded. "Okay, okay. I think I'm all right now."

He stole a kiss before stepping back from her and slipping his fingers down along her arm to reclaim her hand. As they made their way across the cellar and up the staircase, she found herself honestly _praying_  that she had made the right choice.

* * *

An hour the spell took to cast . . . .

The incantation wasn't a mere chant. It had been lengthy and versed, more like a song, really. They weren't even allowed to pause for a moment, moving in circles around Selwyn the entire time.

Thorfinn and Antonin both refused to let her assist, or even get too close to the ritual space, for fear the combination of smells from burning herbs might not be good for her. Though, she fussed and huffed, they wouldn't hear arguments, going so far as threatening to pin her outside the doorway with a sticking charm if she couldn't find in herself the restraint to simply watch from a distance.

In retrospect, she thought perhaps she should've mentioned to the Selwyns about the possibility of pregnancy before they'd had to guess it from her husbands' fretting, but she'd not imagined it would come up this way.

So, here she sat on the floor just inside the doorway, simply observing as Antonin and Thorfinn went on in a way she could only liken to archaic rite casting. For nearly the entire hour, Selwyn had been entirely unaffected by their efforts. In fact, she thought he was actually starting to look bored.

Then, a strange keening sound filled the room. They all shielded their ears with their hands, cringing against the noise. All the living occupants of the room, anyway.

As the sound died away, Hermione dropped her hands to her sides. Returning her attention to the ritual space, she found it empty.

"What?" Her heart hammered in her chest as she shot to her feet. Though she ran across the room, Thorfinn caught her before she could break the circle. "No,  _no_!"

He picked her up off her feet and carried her back, away from the smoke in the air.

"No, you put me down!" she hollered. "Where are they? Where _are_  they?!"

Antonin looked about, his dark eyes unblinking as he tried to understand. They should be  _right_  here. "We'll figure this out, just—"

_"Hermione?"_

She started just as Thorfinn set her feet on the floor. "Where are you?"

There was a groan, followed by Corvus stumbling in from the corridor, holding his head. "God, let's never—never do that again," he said, his voice low and thick.

She looked him over. He looked . . . well, like his usual ghostly self, but none the worse for wear. "How'd you get out there?"

"No idea." He met her gaze, confusion pinching his features. "Where's Augustin?"

Her brows shot up as she shook her head. "I—"

Another pained groan echoed through the room. This one, however, from . . . far closer.

Hermione and Thorfinn exchanged a look. Moving nearly as one, they leaned over the nearby sofa. On the floor behind it lay the translucent, greyish-white form of Augustin Selwyn. He was  _honestly_  a ghost, on his own, free of that damned portrait!

He looked up at her and smiled, the expression disarming for how he pressed his hand to his head "Hello, Hermione."

Smiling back, even as she felt that damned stinging in the tip of her nose—but at least this time, it was a sensation born of happiness—she said, "Hello, Augustin. It's good to see you."


	16. Chapter 16

**Chapter Sixteen**

The witch pouted, her shoulders slumping as she watched them. She had no idea ghosts could exhaust themselves in such a human way, yet, here they were. She was perched in the center of the sofa between Antonin and Thorfinn, who both looked on with arched brows.

Poor Corvus and Augustin were sprawled on the floor, their chests moving rapidly as though they were breathing heavily, but, again, ghosts, and all that, so Hermione could only assume it was more of a psychosomatic response to the exhaustion they were feeling. That didn't stop Augustin from staggering to his feet, once more.

He held his hand out to Corvus, but the younger Selwyn—or, perhaps she should think of him not as younger, but as more recent, maybe? God, that line of thought was confusing, even for  _her_ —only stared at the offer.

Corvus shook his head. "I think . . . I need another minute or . . . five."

"Just stop, please," she finally said with a head shake of her own. Both Selwyns looked over at her and she met their gazes, in turn. "This is clearly taxing on you, both. The effort's just too much."

Sighing, Augustin dropped his attention to the floor as he nodded. Corvus just let his eyes drift closed.

"Sorry," they said, speaking at the same time.

"Still not used to that," Thorfinn whispered, though not quietly enough, as both specters shot him a dirty look. Hermione bit her lip to hold in a giggle, but she could feel the slight start he gave to find the ghosts glaring at him.

She stood from the sofa and walked over to them, settling on her knees beside Corvus. "Listen, it's really okay with me if you two can't join. If it's not okay with you, then that's fine, but this is obviously a difficult thing to accomplish now." She shrugged. "You might not have the strength to do it on your own without being forced together right now, but maybe it's like anything else, and you can build up to it."

The Selwyns exchanged a glance. "Like exercising?" Corvus asked.

"Exactly. Every night, try for just a little bit. If it doesn't eventually get easier, then we'll know that it's . . . ." She swallowed hard, a mirthless half-smile on her lips. "We'll know that it's not possible. But we went into this knowing that might happen, so—"

"But you are still upset about it," Augustin said with a sad smile of his own.

"How _I_  feel about it is irrelevant." She had to stop herself from reaching out to touch his face, just then. It felt like instinct, but the knowledge that her fingers would pass right through kept her hand pinned to her lap. "I'm considering what is best for the two of you. As stated, this is clearly taxing for you, both, and the three of _us_ have been up the entire night—again. We all need rest. God knows poor Caster is just going to have another fit about breakfast being missed."

Corvus and Augustin both nodded. "Right, rest is good," Corvus said with a tired chuckle.

"Good night, Hermione." Augustin smiled at her as they both faded from sight.

" _Definitely_ going to take some getting used to," Antonin muttered, nodding.

Snickering as she shook her head, Hermione climbed to her feet and started for the parlor entryway. As she moved, both wizards jumped to their feet. Her shoulders hunched at the notice and she pivoted on her heel to face them.

"Stop." She held up her hands, her expression pleading. "Look, I honestly think it's very sweet the way you're both fussing over me, but a potential pregnancy does not suddenly mean I'm made of spun glass!"

"We . . . we haven't been doing that," Thorfinn said, having the decency to feign an affronted expression.

Antonin, however, took appropriate blame, aware he was being overly cautious since their joint realization just a few hours earlier. "On the contrary, Hermione. I believe our behavior is to be expected."

"Even if it's in danger of driving me mad?" She let her hands drop to her sides. "I mean, let's be serious about this for just a moment. Even if I  _am_ pregnant, I can't be far enough along for the simplest little task to tax my system, all right? I mean, if this is how you are when I can't be more than a week and a half if it's Thorfinn's, or more than a few days if it's yours, then how on earth are either of you going to handle it when I'm in my eighth month, can't see my own feet, everything hurts, I can't find a comfortable bloody sleeping position, and I'll pretty much hate the very sight of both of you for doing this to me?!"

By the time she finished her tirade, each of her husbands were gaping at her. Their mouths hanging open just a little, and their eyebrows high on their foreheads, they both genuinely looked at a loss for what to say.

Inhaling deep and letting the breath out slow, she said, "Well, now that that's off my chest, I think I'll head up to bed. Goodnight."

The wizards merely watched in silence as she exited the parlor. For a few, notably strained heartbeats, neither of them spoke.

"I'll say it." Thorfinn nodded to no one at all, his gaze on the carpet beneath his feet and his expression pensive. "With what we already know of her temper, I'm a bit terrified of what she'll be like when she _is_  eight months pregnant."

Antonin uttered a loud, relieved sigh. "Oh, thank  _God_. That makes two of us."

* * *

Two weeks of relative peace drifted by in Selwyn Hall. Realizing how lost they were in regard to the Holidays, the motley household belatedly celebrated a combination of Christmas and New Years, just to make certain they weren't missing out on either. Hermione was little miffed that no one would even let her touch the egg nog, and even her ghosts  _pretended_  to stumble into her path whenever she crossed under the mistletoe.

Bridy was in an absolute tizzy tending to her mistress' every need, whether  _Mis'ress Minnie_  liked it or not. The word  _possibly_ not seeming to make sense—or, perhaps simply to not matter—to the elf once she'd registered that the word  _pregnant_ followed.

The Selwyns had made their  _exercise_  into a nightly routine, just as Hermione had suggested. They were still having no success at joining, but their attempts were proving less tiring by the day.

Their discussion with Rabastan yielded no clues about Voldemort's true motive, not that Hermione was terribly surprised. Though, he was very curious about the date of conception . . . . Which could only mean he had a vested interest in when Elisha's pregnancy would come to term.

None of them liked the sound of that, at _all_.

* * *

Hermione sat at a window in the sunroom, watching the snowfall outside, when that awful sound announcing an arrival by Floo rang through the massive house. Sighing, she stood, wondering if the twisting in her stomach was nerves or something else. After all, it _had_  been two weeks since they'd realized she could be pregnant, she hadn't objected to sharing her bed with either of her husbands during that time. She knew she should've, comprehending what they did of their situation, but who was she kidding? She was in love with—and  _stupidly_ attracted to—both of them. And they were all in dire need of the physical comfort.

If she hadn't been pregnant before, there was a _pretty_  good chance she might be, now.

As she made her way to the library door, Corvus and Augustin appeared before her.

Gasping, she pressed her palm over her heart. "Good Lord, Selwyns!" With an airy laugh, she shook her head. "Haven't I asked you to give me some kind of warning?"

They shared a quick look. "Yes, but we haven't really sort that, yet," Corvus said.

Nodding, Augustin tacked on, "And we were not certain we should waste the time just now to figure one out. Your guest . . . it is  _him_."

Oh, that churning in her gut was  _definitely_  nerves, she realized, as the sensation only intensified with the unpleasant news they'd brought her. "Voldemort?"

Corvus winced, still unaccustomed to hearing him referred to as anything other than  _The Dark Lord_. Augustin folded his lips in a grim line and nodded.

"Oh, dear," she said, giving herself a shake.

"Do not worry." Augustin gave her that vaguely whimsical look of his. "We will be with you the whole time, and he will never know."

That certainly perked her up. "Really?"

Both of her specters smiled, vanishing before her eyes. Frowning, she looked about the space where they'd been. "Corvus? Augustin?"

"We're still here," Corvus answered, his tone lightly amused.

Augustin followed, "Trust us."

Their words emanated from exactly where the pair had stood. She knew she should not be surprised by their disembodied voices, but this was the first time she'd had such a close relationship with a ghost—let alone two. She supposed this was the sort of thing she ought to get used to.

Nodding, she squared her shoulders and forced herself to leave the sanctuary of the library. As she made her way toward the staircase, she was greeted by the sounds of footfalls coming up the steps.

She must've paused, she realized, because she then heard Augustin's voice, low in her ear. "Thorfinn."

Letting out a breath she'd not noticed she was holding, Hermione pushed herself to meet the wizard at the second floor landing.

"There you are," he said, with a grin that looked pained and the result of  _far_ too much effort. "When you didn't come down, we were wondering—"

"The ghosts warned me who our guest is, and I am simply not eager to even be on the same floor as him longer than is absolutely necessary."

He uttered a tired chuckle as he shook his head. "Oh, how I wish I had such a freedom. I should warn you, he's, well, he's not alone."

Furrowing her brow, she allowed him to take her arm and guide her down the steps beside him. "Who?"

There was some note in the sigh that escaped him, then, which she did not like at  _all_. "A Medi-witch in his employ . . . . Well, I suppose every healer in Wizarding Britain's under his employ, now."

She frowned as her eyes widened. "Should I have to guess why he's brought a Medi-witch with him?"

Thorfinn arched a brow, tipping his head to one side. "He says it's to be sure you are being,  _ahem_ , properly cared for here, but I think we all know that's just a cover for his real reasoning."

"To be fair," she said, lowering her voice to a whisper as they got closer to the first floor, "making sure I'm healthy is probably very  _much_  part of his reasoning."

"You make a good point. But, at least we'll know for sure after this whether or not you're . . . well . . . ." He shrugged as he let his voice trail off.

Hermione snickered. "My goodness, Thorfinn. You have trouble even saying the word. How are you going to behave if I actually  _am_  pregnant?"

"Well," he said with an uncomfortable laugh, "we might just find that out, yeah?"

As they entered the parlor, they both started just a little at the way Antonin was already staring daggers in their direction. Neither of them could very much say they blamed him, being left in the company of the Dark Lord and his very put-upon looking Medi-witch.

The poor woman appeared about as pleased to be there as any of them, Hermione'd give her that. She looked vaguely familiar. Hermione thought she must've seen her in passing that time she'd visited St. Mungo's with Harry and Ron.

"Hermione," Voldemort said, his raspy voice dripping with false sweetness. "So glad you could join us. You weren't napping, were you?"

"I was not, Tom." From the corner of her eye, she could see the Medi-witch blanch at her blatant informality. "Why would you think so?"

The Dark Lord shrugged. "Simply curious of you are comfortable, if you are resting well."

"He's not very subtle, is he?" Corvus murmured.

Augustin answered, his voice just as low and barely audible as the other ghost's. "I am not certain he feels he needs to be."

"You two really have to stop that," Thorfinn said behind his hand, covering the words with a feigned cough.

"And who is this you've brought with you?" the lady of the house asked, ignoring the hushed conversation.

"Oh, this is a Healer from . . . ." Voldemort frowned, turning toward the other witch. "Where did I find you, again?"

The woman swallowed hard, keeping her gaze glued to the floor as she stammered out, "St.—St. Mungo's, My Lord."

"There we are. You have been shut into this house for over two months, now. I thought it best someone look you over and make certain you are—"

"Being properly cared for?" Hermione lifted her brows. "That's uncharacteristically kind of you. Miss? I'm sure you've got other things you must get back to, so let's you and I pop into another room and take care of this exam, shall we?"

The Medi-witch looked frozen in place, uncertain if she should move without the Dark Lord's express permission. Turning her head to regard him with little, trembling motions, she said, "My Lord?"

"Yes, L . . . was your name Linda? Lissette? Oh, no matter. Go."

Watching the witches disappear from the room together, Voldemort drew closer to his followers. "Should I be suspicious of how cooperative she is being?"

Thorfinn affected a perfectly confused look as he said, "I'm sorry, My Lord?"

Antonin offered an equally mystified expression. "I intend no offense, My Lord, but I believe your presence makes her uncomfortable. That being said, I would think she is simply eager to do whatever she can to keep your visit . . . brief."

Voldemort hid a smile at the mention. Yes, he'd been aware that under all Hermione Granger's bravado, she  _did_  fear him. It was her refusal to let that fear show which grated on his nerves so very,  _very_ much.

Oh, when the day came when he no longer had need of her, he was going to savor the casting of  _that_ particular Killing Curse, indeed.

* * *

Hermione couldn't say she was surprised when the exam came and went in silence. As the Medi-witch lowered her wand, she asked, "You're not supposed to tell me whatever it is you're looking for, are you?"

The other woman darted her gaze about the room, before she shook her head. It was sad, really, to note the way every movement she made had a little shiver to it.

"Then I won't bother to ask." Hermione nodded, more than aware of what it was like to not have much choice in things. "I wouldn't want to tempt you to endanger yourself."

The Medi-witch pouted, her brow furrowing. "Thank you."

Hermione could only guess that this woman was a pure-blood. That as much as she feared the Dark Lord, she just as much feared—if not  _more_ —whatever lies the Wizarding public had been fed about the dangerous war criminal, Hermione Granger.

And to be treated so kindly by someone so reportedly treacherous, well, _that_  must be something she hadn't been expecting. But this woman clearly had nothing to do with Voldemort. Getting her in trouble would accomplish nothing but putting this Medi-witch who was only doing her job in harm's way.

Leaving the matter at that, Hermione led the way back to the parlor. Though she went to stand with her husbands, just as quick, she glanced over her shoulder toward Voldemort and the other witch.

The serpentine wizard ducked his head, carrying on some whispered exchange with her. His features schooled, he straightened, pinning the three with his gaze.

"We will take our leave, now."

The Death Eaters immediately dropped into a deep bow, but Hermione only folded her arms under her breasts. Arching a brow, she kept her attention locked on Voldemort until he disappeared through the wash of green flames in the fireplace.

Though she didn't pay the other witch much mind as she departed right behind him, Hermione knew the way she'd handled herself in his presence, her open defiance of him, had given that woman some very serious things to think about. Maybe even things she'd pass on to others.

It wasn't much, but . . . . Hermione'd once heard a line somewhere that had struck her interest. About how some actions were no more than a drop in a vast ocean, yet, what is an ocean, if not a multitude of drops?

Feeling just a  _hair_ less powerless than she had since she'd watched Harry fall, Hermione smiled. She understood now—she  _hadn't_  done much, but every ocean started as a single drop.

When they were gone, Augustin's voice cut through the parlor. "Warning as requested."

He and Corvus appeared before their housemates.

"Now, was that so hard?" Antonin asked with a frown.

Corvus mirrored his expression. "As we've said before, there isn't always time."

"You were right, though," Augustin said, shaking his head as he looked Hermione over with concern visible in his cloudy eyes. "He  _did_ want to know if you are with child."

"And?" Thorfinn demanded, looking ready to pull out his hair.

"She's not," Corvus said, swallowing hard; the witch ignored the audible sounds of relief both her husbands uttered. "But there was just something . . . ."

"Something  _what_?" Hermione met the ghost's gaze, disliking the way he'd left off.

"Well, his reaction to finding out you're not pregnant, yet." Shaking his head, Corvus folded his arms across his chest. "He wasn't disappointed  _or_  put off, as I'd expected, given the simplicity of what he told you two about his reasons."

Though she didn't like it, she knew she had to ask. Needing to brace herself for the reply, she slipped one hand into each of her husbands', interlocking her fingers with theirs. "So . . . what was he?"

Augustin and Corvus glanced at one another before answering at the same moment, "He was  _livid_."


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> t is an assertion in the HP wiki that Penelope Clearwater was 'either' a half-blood or a Muggle-born, with evidence leaning toward the latter, since she was a victim of the Basilisk's petrification, like the other known Muggle-born students, but because it's never clearly established in the series, it's sort of an unknown. For the sake of this story, I'm going with Muggle-born.
> 
> I'm also deviating from the film casting (in which she is a blonde with blue eyes), as the only real descriptive we get of her in the books is 'long, curly hair.'

**Chapter Seventeen**

Thorfinn and Antonin exchanged a look, their brows high on their foreheads. Hermione could only mirror their questioning expressions, uncertain what was so difficult to understand.

A handful of days had passed since Voldemort had brought that poor Medi-witch to Selwyn Hall. The three had been . . .  _cautious_ since then, but the uncertainty of their situation had been grating on all of them.

It hardly seemed a far-gone conclusion, but Hermione surmised that if they had more information—or even perhaps simply some contact with anyone else—it would take the edge off their mutual anxiety.

But, such would have to happen in a way that would not arouse the Lord of Wizarding Britain's suspicion.

"A dinner party," she said again, frowning at them. "Rabastan and Elisha would be invited for starters, and . . . . Um . . . ."

Antonin sighed, shaking his head. "That's a very short guest list, not sure it would be convincing cover."

She nodded, thinking back over the last few months. "Draco." Once more, she nodded. "Draco Malfoy, he was roped into this, too, wasn't he? We can invite him and his wife, whoever she is."

Thorfinn furrowed his brow. "I seem to recall you two didn't exactly get along."

"We didn't." Hermione sighed. "I admit, there was a time his name would be the last one I'd reach for, but . . . when he was our witness, I could tell he wasn't the same boy I'd gone to school with. I think the Second War changed him for the better. He's smart, I dare say he's as smart as me and clever as a Ravenclaw. If we're going to figure a way out of whatever Voldemort is planning, we're going to want him on our side."

Antonin looked thoughtful, stroking his beard. "The Malfoys haven't been the Dark Lord's biggest fans since the War. If we get Draco in on this, chances are he might be able to quietly secure his parents' support, as well."

She snickered, shaking her head. "For once, the Malfoys' purist ways are a good thing. Pretty sure they'd be on board for anything that means they won't have to be parents to a half-blood."

"Unless, like Rabastan, Draco's legitimately fallen in love with his wife," Thorfinn said with a shrug.

"That sounds like an argument for the Malfoy family  _after_  we've stopped whatever Voldemort's plan is, yeah?" Hermione asked with a wink.

Antonin dropped his gaze to the floor, a half-grin curving his lips as he nodded. He noted that Thorfinn deliberately left them both out of the mention of Death Eaters  _legitimately_  falling in love with their Muggle-born wives, and Hermione had been gracious enough to ignore it. They were probably all thinking how odd it was to consider falling in love with one's spouse _after_  the fact, what with arranged marriages being a thing of the long-past, but these were strange times, indeed.

"So, then, it's small, but we're agreed upon the guest list?"

Both wizards nodded.

"Okay," she said with a brisk nod. She knew what they were all hoping for—that there would be a waterfall effect.  _They_  had limited reach due to Voldemort's fixation on her, but who knew how far the Lestrange and Malfoy heirs' voices might reach?

"I trust you two can secure permission from your 'boss' to have this party?"

"Don't see as we have much choice. Even with Bass and Malfoy having freedom of movement, a sudden gathering here might raise his suspicions if it seems like we kept it from him."

Antonin nodded in agreement with Thorfinn's words. "We'll also have explain it as something he'll find . . . agreeable. If we were simply to say you're in need of the company, he'd laugh it off sooner than we can blink."

"Hmm." Hermione took a moment with that, nodding once more as she said, "Tell him that a pure-blood social event, wherein the only people I can relate to are _not_  likely to support my brazenness because they've come to understand their place, will impress upon me how inescapable my situation is."

As earlier in the conversation, both of her husbands arched a brow at her.

She mimicked their look. "Thinking I'd have been a Slytherin if I'd been born into a wizarding line, aren't you?"

Antonin answered, "Strangely? Yes."

"You're a little scary, sometimes," Thorfinn said.

Biting her lip, she kept back a smile that was equal parts whimsical and forlorn. "That's not the first time someone's told me that."

"But that would certainly work. Furthermore, if he tries to invite himself, we can point out that having him here during a meal—since you've made clear how unappetizing you find his presence—might cause you to abstain from eating that night. Not at all a favorable thing if he has a vested interest in your physical health."

Hermine couldn't help but beam at the golden-haired wizard. She must be stupidly in love, because she could not believe how happy she was that he so often and so easily proved himself much smarter than she'd originally given him credit for. "I'll write up the invitations, can Strix deliver mail?"

Thorfinn arched a brow. "He's an owl, isn't he? You'll have to ask  _him_  whether or not he actually wants to, of course."

"Well, then I suppose I'd better do him the courtesy of asking before I write the invitations." This time, she allowed herself to smile a little sadly as she stood—God, she missed having a familiar. "Wouldn't want the poor thing to feel I'm being presumptuous."

Thorfinn chuckled, shaking his head as he watched her go. "I know, he can be temperamental some days."

She shrugged, calling as she disappeared through the doors, "Like wizard, like familiar, I suppose!"

* * *

One week later, Hermione stood in a corner of the grand dining room, rubbing her temples with the fingertips of both hands. She'd neglected one, small detail when she'd had this brilliant idea. For the Muggle dinner parties her parents had thrown when she was a child, she'd always been allowed to assist in setting up.

Tonight, however, she thought finally, the house elves' classic, ingrained distain for Muggle-borns was shining through. Both Caster and Bridy had shooed her away from trying to help. When she tried to insist, Caster even shot her a withering look that could've given Kreacher a run for his money, as far as grumpy glares went.

Now that they'd finished, and everything looked immaculate, the smell of food from the kitchens could be described as nothing less than mouthwatering, and the guests were due to arrive any moment, she sighed. There was nothing for her to do. Not a corner of a napkin to straighten, not a spot on a glass to wipe away.

She loved her elves as members of the household, she knew she gave them a better and more considerate life than any master they'd served before her. Still she could not help feeling a little dissatisfied with them. Not because they weren't doing enough, or due to any actual flaw, but because they were doing _too_  much  _too_  perfectly. Because they appeared no flaws in their work, and having nothing of her own  _to_  upkeep in her own home made her feel useless in a way she hadn't thought possible, before.

"You really should stop fretting so," Augustin said, shaking his head and crossing his arms over his chest.

"I think she should fret more often." Corvus snickered, mirroring the other Selwyn's posture. "It's adorable."

She couldn't help but smile, a blush flaring in her cheeks. "You two shush. And please, please, don't let on to the guests that you're here. I know it seems silly, because you know, magical folk and ghosts are hardly strangers, but I feel it might be a bit of a nasty shock to Rabastan and Draco to see you, Corvus, the same way it first was for Thorfinn and Antonin." She glanced from one ghost to the other. "Same for you, Augustin, what with the family resemblance, and all."

They both frowned, their shoulders slumping. "Fine," they said in unison. Though, Corvus tacked on, "We'll be quiet and unseen."

As that awful sound of the Floo jumping to life rang through the house, she lifted her brows at her specters. Augustin gave a gracious nod as he vanished from sight. Corvus, however, rolled his eyes.

"You really  _are_ lucky you're adorable," he said in a whisper.

"Will you please go?" she asked, a laugh in her voice.

Ever the fresher one of the two, he blew her a kiss—complete with a flirtatious wink—and then disappeared, as well.

She swallowed hard, nodding to herself. What she was lucky about was that they'd not met under more agreeable terms when he'd still been alive, or she'd never have stood a chance against that charming grin of his.

"I saw that."

Shaking her head at his whispered voice in her ear, she forced herself to head to the parlor.  _Honestly, so_ , so _lucky._

She'd been expecting the relief of seeing Rabastan's familiar face, and yes, sure, even Draco's. But she was not expecting the swell of glee at seeing a familiar  _female_ face stepping from the fireplace on the Malfoy heir's arm.

"Penelope?"

"Hermione!" The other witch's lovely jet eyes lit up as she moved away from her husband to cross the floor, meeting the lady of the house half-way.

"I had no idea!" Hermione was pretty certain she'd never hugged anyone as hard in her life as she did just now. Though she felt sure she must be squeezing the breath out of Penelope, the dark-skinned young woman never made a peep of discomfort, returning the embrace with just as much warmth.

"I couldn't believe it when we got your invitation!" She pulled back, holding Hermione at arms' length. They'd not really been more than glorified acquaintances during their time at Hogwarts but  _this_ circumstance was nothing if not a bonding experience. "I'd have written to let you know I was coming, but Draco thought it unwise, given the, um, situation."

Hermione turned to pin the aforementioned wizard with her gaze. "Oh? Draco?"

He shrugged, feigning that smug  _I've thought of something before you_  look she recalled from school, but she'd be the bigger person and  _not_  point out that he'd not actually had many opportunities to flash her that expression. "Well,  _given_  the situation, I thought it best the Dark Lord not realize you two are more closely acquainted than simply having been in school together."

"I can't believe I'm going to say this, but it's good to see you, Draco," she said, stepping closer and pulling him in for a hug, as well.

Antonin cleared his throat in an awkward sound. Thorfinn, however, took a more heavy-handed approach, actually walking up behind their wife and plucking her from the other wizard's arms.

It felt  _really_ good that everyone present shared a laugh at that. Hermione hadn't realized how much she'd missed company—how much her heart had absolutely ached for it—over all these long months since the War's end.

With that, she pivoted to face the pretty blonde on Rabastan's arm. The young woman looked familiar. Hermione thought she didn't quite recognize her from Hogwarts, but she had glimpsed her a few times when they were being dragged from their cells to go the showers.

She seemed to recall the other girl failing to hide a gleeful grin when she'd  _accidentally_ smashed her heel against the shin of the guard who'd been pulling her back to her little cage, just as Hermione'd been pushed toward the horrible room where they were hosed down with clean—but ice cold—water. Honestly, it was amazing none of Voldemort's  _special prisoners_ had caught their death during their captivity.

"Elisha, it's nice to meet—" Hermione's words were cut off as the blonde rushed forward to hug her tight.

"Told you she's sort of a fan," Rabastan said with a snicker.

Nodding as the other witch finally relinquished her hold, she tried again. "It's nice to meet you."

Elisha beamed. "You, too! Oh, this is so exciting!"

Something about her demeanor tore at Hermione's heart, even though she barely knew her. Though, with her display of spiritedness, and her light-hearted tone, she thought . . . Elisha reminded her of Ginny . . . and Luna.

God, she missed them. Swallowing hard, she blinked away the sudden sting of tears in her eyes and sniffled, forcing a smile. "Well, our elves have really outdone themselves with the meal. Shall we?" She swept her arm toward the parlor door.

* * *

"Unfortunately, you are right," Draco said as Caster and Bridy set out dessert. "My father would be delighted to do something about these marriages."

Hermione couldn't help but notice the way Penelope dropped her gaze into her dish. Brow furrowing, she said, "Penelope? Are Draco's parents treating you unkindly?"

The other witch looked up, appearing startled. "No, no. Not really. Mrs. Malfoy has been pretty understanding of the situation. Mr. Malfoy less-so, but not terrible. As unhappy as he is with these matches, I think he _does_  grasp that we were not given a choice."

Remembering Narcissa and Lucius Malfoy quite well, Hermione nodded, a slip of a grin on her lips. "That does seem about as much as one can hope for with Draco's father."

" _Oy_ ," the wizard said, though there was a chuckle in his voice.

"I know it is." Penelope shrugged. "But . . . ." She exchanged a long look with her husband before she went on. "It really seems against all odds that this matches have worked out, but they have. I'm just scared that if we manage to put an end to whatever You Know Who has planned, Mr. Malfoy might force us to get divorced."

Frowning, Hermione nodded. She could feel the weight of Antonin and Thorfinn's gazes on her, but could not bring herself to look at either one of them. She had skillfully avoided thinking about  _afterward_.

"The only way to put a stop to this . . . ." Rabastan said with a heavy sigh, shaking his head. He held one of Elisha's hands clasped between both of his, pressing her knuckles gently to his lips as he spoke. "Blimey, I can't believe I'm going to say this, but the only way to stop whatever it is he wants with our future children is to stop  _him_. As in, entirely."

Antonin nodded as Thorfinn responded, "We have to end him."

"We have to fight another war," Hermione clarified, swallowing hard.

There was a heavy moment of silence throughout the grand dining room. She was right, they all knew it. Whatever Voldemort wanted with their children, they could not let it happen, but at long as he lived—as long as those still loyal to him followed his every whim—there was no hope of any of them getting free of his grasp.

"Which is why you brought this to Bass and me," Draco said, nodding.

Hermione's brows drew upward. "Exactly."

Rabastan nodded, as well. "We'll do whatever we can to get the word out to those who would be receptive to it. And, of course, we'll be subtle about it."

Elisha's shoulders slumped as she looked at her husband from the corner of her eye. "What about _us_ , then?"

Rabastan met her gaze, his brows shooting into his hairline. "Us? Which us?"

"Your wives." She frowned, shaking her head. "What? We're just supposed to sit back and let you fight for us? Absolutely not!"

"Okay, let's get things clear.  _You_  can't fight."

"The hell I can't!" Elisha's delicate features pinched with anger. "You think because I'm pregnant suddenly my magic will fail me, or something?"

"No, no, it's not—"

"If anything, Rabastan Lestrange, my being pregnant will make my magic more potent, because I've got something to protect!"

Penelope nodded. "She's right. She'll pour more motivation into her spells. It might actually prove detrimental _not_  to have her on the battlefield."

Rabastan stared daggers at the curly-haired witch while Draco rolled his eyes toward the ceiling, uttering a silent chuckle.

"But that as it may," Antonin said, holding up his hands in a placating gesture, "none of that matters if you're all unarmed. We can't exactly secret you wands. The Dark Lord's got Olivander under lock and key. Literally."

"Oh, dear." Hermione sighed, frowning. "I don't know where we'll find another wand maker, but—"

"I believe I can assist with that."

Hermione's eyelids fluttered in exasperation, both of her husbands scowling as their guests all jumped at the disembodied voice.

"Augustin, I told you not to do that."

"Sorry, but it is necessary," the ghost said, appearing beside his witch's seat.

"Corvus?" Rabastan and Draco said in unison.

"Didn't you just hear her call him Augustin?"

Hermione slumped down in her chair at Corvus' mildly affronted tone as he, too, appeared before the gathering on her other side.

"As if I'd ever wear my hair like that?" the younger Selwyn asked, shaking his head and ignoring the way Augustin pursed his lips in a displeased expression.

Draco rubbed his temples as Rabastan looked from one specter to the other, and back. ". . . . What?"

"Oh, God," Hermione said, groaning the words as she slapped her palm against her forehead. "Okay, no one is focusing on the right thing, now. Thanks very much for that, Selwyns."

At least they both had the decency to look mildly abashed as they said in unison, "Sorry."

"Rabastan, Draco? You already know Corvus, long story short, his ghost was drawn back here after his death on the battlefield. And this is Augustin, his ancestor. Please do not fuss about the resemblance."

Rabastan and Draco both nodded, their expressions questioning and mildly dazed.

"Augustin?" Hermione was determined to keep them all on track, even if her ghosts' sudden, and largely unannounced, appearance had the danger of devolving the whole evening into talking about Selwyn Hall's very interesting past. "I believe you said something about assisting us?"

"Yes," he said with a nod. "It is, well . . . ." He turned and started walking. "It might be simpler if you all just follow me."

With a confused frown, Hermione looked to Corvus for any sort of clarity on the matter. Corvus only shrugged, trailing after the other ghost as the seated witches and wizards stood up from the table.

"I've no idea what this is about, either."

Given how much time the Selwyns had spent being one another's only companions, she wasn't certain she liked the idea of there being a secret Augustin had kept from Corvus.

The confused gathering trooped through the house and down the cellar stairs. Augustin guided them around the piles of antiques and further across the wide space than Hermione'd previously ventured.

Finally, they found themselves before a door. Though, none of them had a good feeling about it, as it seemed to blend with the wall; not a spell, but a deliberate construction choice to camouflage the entrance.

"You have been aware of it, have you not? The strangeness in the air of this house?"

"Now that you mention it," Draco said with a nod.

Augustin nodded. "This is why . . . . If one of you could please unlock the door?"

When the request was met with silence, Thorfinn rolled his eyes. Drawing his wand, he cast the unlocking charm as he muttered under his breath. "Like you're all expecting another bloody basilisk behind it."

"You're right," Hermione said, steeling her nerves as she stepped forward, reaching out to pull open the door.

Antonin illuminated the tip of his wand and stepped in ahead of her. "Oh, Merlin." The words fell from his lips in hushed tumble.

The others filed in behind him, turning slow to take in each wall. "Augustin? What is this place?" Hermione asked, barely able to believe her own eyes.

"My father crafted these as a hobby. He never believed they were good enough, so he stored them. I suppose the energy of so many unused wands lying dormant for so long has seeped into the house."

Corvus' jaw fell as he looked over the carefully perched weapons. "You kept this from me?"

"No, I did not keep anything from anyone. There had simply never been a reason to even think on this room before tonight." Augustin shrugged, moving his arm in a sweeping gesture. "Either way, I believe this is what is called providence. It is what is needed when it is needed. You witches might not find perfect matches among this collection, but you will more than likely find ones that will work well enough to see you safely through a battle."

Hermione watched as Elisha and Penelope set to testing the wands without hesitation. There was a strange, fierce feeling bubbling in her chest as she looked over the walls, once more. She was going to get to _fight._ She was going to have a hand in her own fate, again.

Returning her attention to Augustin, she smiled. "If you weren't a ghost, I'd hug you to bits, right now."

He smiled back, appearing to inhale a deep breath as he nodded. "It is the thought that counts."


	18. Chapter 18

**Chapter Eighteen**

Weeks passed as the small group plotted and planned. Draco had invited himself over for tea one afternoon, under the guise of 'subtly inquiring on the Dark Lord's behalf' about whether or not Hermione might be pregnant, yet.

After a mere half an hour's time, the two were kicking themselves. The actual purpose of the seemingly-impromptu visit had been to allow Hermione and Draco to plot out coded language for the group's communications. But, that they'd managed to do so in just over twenty minutes, with time to spare for that tea, made both of them regretful they'd not been able to put aside their differences during their school years.

Research between the two of them would've allowed them both so much more time for, well, studying  _more_!

Antonin and Thorfinn had watched this meeting of the minds from the relative safety of the sofa across the room. Given their history, her husbands were actually expecting a screaming match, perhaps objects being thrown.

What they were treated to, instead, was the pair becoming so engrossed in their project that they were finishing one another's sentences, bordering on seeming to speak some private language. Given their task, her husbands grudgingly convinced themselves this was a positive thing.

* * *

She spent much of the time working with her new wand, getting accustomed to its weight in her hand, and the feel of the gracefully carved wood in her grasp. She could not imagine how it was that Augustin's father had been such a perfectionist that he had considered such masterfully crafted weapons to be  _not good enough_.

But then, she supposed that was how it was with perfectionists. Not as though she hadn't crumpled up her fair share of parchment because a thousand word homework essay had _one_  word that wasn't quite right.

Every so often, Augustin would pop into the room and watch her practicing. She thought he enjoyed seeing his father's hard work finally serving the purpose it always should have. From Thorfinn and Antonin's communications with Draco and Rabastan, Penelope and Elisha's wandwork retraining was coming along well, too.

And, if Rabastan could be taken at his word, Elisha's magic really  _was_ packing quite a wallop. He was, according to his most recent missive, still limping from a stinging hex she'd tagged him with the day before. Apparently, he'd been having  _too_  much fun getting handsy with her suddenly plumper curves.

Thorfinn and Antonin both pretended they didn't know the meaning of the warning look Hermione shot each of them as they'd informed her of the Lestrange's notably amusing tiff.

* * *

Hermione rubbed a fist against her eyes as she dragged her feet down the staircase in plodding steps. She could hear them from her room. It was late, it was dark, and the last thing she'd wanted was to yank herself out of bed to see what the fuss was about, but when Thorfinn's booming laugh interrupted her attempt to get back to sleep for the third time in a row, she knew there was nothing else to be done for it.

"Seriously, though—" That was Rabastan's voice. What was he doing here at this hour? She poked her head into the study doorway to see her husbands splitting a bottle with him and Draco. "With you three being under magical house-arrest, how are we supposed to even get to a location  _to_  fight him? It's not as though you three can slip out of here and go and assault the Ministry, for fuck's sake."

"We let him catch on to what we're up to, of course," Hermione said, her words nearly garbled as she struggled to hold back a yawn.

All four men—pure-blood wizards ever being formal—jumped to their feet at the sound of her voice.

"Hermione, shouldn't you be sleeping?"

At Antonin's urging, she closed her eyes and sighed, pinching gently at the bridge of her nose. So . . . she might've stumbled into her husbands' beds, again . . . and a few more times after that. But she didn't need them falling back into their panicked  _what if she's pregnant?_  routine, again.

"Just as I told you the last time you two started acting like this, even if I  _were_  with child, I couldn't possibly be far enough along for something like this to do any harm. Now, stop your fussing."

Draco's brows drew upward as he reclaimed his seat. "Yes," he said, his tone dry, "I really  _can_  see why you two fools are so smitten with her."

Thorfinn scowled as he pinned the notably leaner and shorter wizard with his gaze. "You are aware I _can_  actually hurl you out the window from where you sit, yeah?"

Hermione bit her lip to hold in a laugh as Draco's face fell.

Holding up his hands, the pale-haired wizard nodded. "Point taken."

"Mm-hmm, mm-hmm." Rabastan nodded as he largely ignored the moment of levity. "I'm sorry, Hermione?"

"Yes?"

"Could you repeat the first thing you said? You know when you startled the living hell out of all of us? The thing that sounded like utter madness?"

Rolling her eyes as she uttered a scoffing sound, she stepped into the room and perched on the armrest of the nearest chair. "I said for any of this to work, we have to let him in on what we're planning."

"Okay, I'm with Bass. This sounds like madness," Antonin said, a dark frown gracing his lips.

"No, no, she's right." Draco chewed at his lower lip in thought before elaborating. "Because the only way for her to even leave is in the company of one of you, and neither of you can leave unless the Dark Lord allows it. You ask for something innocuous, I don't know, maybe to drag her along on one of your missions. Say it's to watch you two at work, as it were. He's frighteningly intelligent, he'll see the appeal of that, because he'll understand that in witnessing the acts you commit, she'll feel like she's party to it."

As Antonin took a seat, Thorfinn folded his arms across his chest. "Go on," they said in the same breath.

Hermione picked up the thread from Draco. "He's probably not likely to give the details about your mission to anyone else,  _unless_  he thinks you mean to use the mission as a cover to simply get me out of the house and go face him. Draco or Rabastan can easily say they overheard us discussing it. He'd want us to  _know_  we can't outwit him, so he'd come to us."

Rabastan sighed heavily as he sank into one of the cushions on the sofa. "And so the Spiderweb Plan stays? We just move it to wherever he sends you, assuming he's coming to greet you with a small band of still-loyal Death Eaters?"

"Exactly." She shrugged. "The Spiderweb has to remain intact, forgive the pun, no matter where this battle takes place. It keeps our  _combined_  focus on Voldemort, so this needn't be an actual war. It's quick, it's clean, it's decisive. Better than that, it's a backup within a backup, so even if one charm-point should falter, another covers its place."

Hermione let out a breath, just barely stopping herself from getting carried away with the brilliance of her Spiderweb Plan. They all knew the bloody thing, she didn't need to go over it, again, she simply couldn't help herself once she got going.

With a nod, she forced herself back on track. "He can still sense them through their Marks, if he's trying, so lying to him about the location won't matter. And, if he thinks he already knows about our plan, he isn't likely to think he would need to use  _Legilimency_ on whoever our 'traitor' is."

"It should be me," Draco said, shaking his head. "Shit, sometime for me to start being brave, huh?"

"Why you?"

"You may not be aware of this, Granger—oh, sorry, Dolohov-Rowle, wasn't it?"

The witch sneered at him. "Well, I'll have you know that  _yes_ , it is."

Draco feigned a sneer, right back. "As I was saying, you may not be aware of this, but I am very skilled at  _Occlumency_. My Aunt Bellatrix was a very flawed woman—"

"She was downright batty," Rabastan interrupted with a snicker.

"But," Draco continued as he shot Rabastan a scathing look, "she trained me well in that particular art. He's  _never_  been able to get into my head."

Hermione nodded. It wasn't exactly pleasant to think about Bellatrix Lestrange. However, that someone who'd been so enamored of Voldemort had been so skilled in hiding her thoughts from him . . . . It did cause one to wonder if the mad witch had really been as loyal in every aspect as she acted. Perhaps she only played at that because his leadership allowed her the freedom to act on her deranged whims.

Okay, _that_  was a troubling thought for another day.

When she yawned, both Thorfinn and Antonin snapped their heads in her direction. The witch jumped a little when she found each of her husbands staring expectantly at her.

"Fine, fine," she said with an unhappy shake of her head. "I'll go back to bed. Never would've imagined men of your stature could be such damned worriers."

Sooner than either of them could complain, she stood from the armrest and started out the door. "But go ahead, discuss another part of the plan  _I_  just gave you without me."

"Sweet dreams, Princess," Thorfinn called, leaning to watch her make her way to the staircase.

"Oh, shut up," she all but shouted back, ignoring the male chuckling that followed her.

* * *

After dinner the following evening, Hermione seemed listless. Thorfinn caught up with her outside the dining room.

Slipping his hand around her elbow, he pulled her to a halt.

Shaking her head, she pivoted in his hold. Looking up at him, she simply breathed the sound, "Hmm?"

He furrowed his brow. "Are you okay?"

"Oh." She couldn't help but smile at his concern. Even just a few weeks back, he'd have probably yanked out his own eyeteeth sooner than openly admit to being concerned about her. "Yes. Yes, I'm okay."

His eyebrows managed to creep closer to his hairline, still, somehow. "Really? So then, why were you in a daze all through dinner?"

"I wasn't in a daze, so much, really. I was . . . ." She sighed. Though, she doubted what actually had her upset would go over well with her husband—with  _either_  of her husbands, actually—she knew she could tell him, just the same. "I  _am_ worried about the Selwyns."

"Oh, them," he said with a sour-toned chuckle as he shook his head.

Hermione shrugged. "I haven't seen them since yesterday afternoon."

"Hmm. Come to think of it, I don't think I've seen either of them, myself." Ducking his head in the rough direction of the dining room, where the other wizard was leisurely sipping some after-dinner coffee, he called out, "Dolohov?"

" _Bloody_  hell, Rowle! You almost made me drop my cup. What is it?"

"You seen the Selwyns?"

"Not since yesterday."

The witch's shoulders slumped at his answer. She didn't even realize she was pouting until she felt the brush of Thorfinn's thumb across her bottom lip.

She met his gaze, surprised at he sincerity in his face as he said, "I'm sure they're about, somewhere. Let's go find them, yeah?"

Smiling, she nodded. "Okay. I just . . . I think I'm just worried that they changed their minds about staying here just for me, and left."

"Without saying goodbye? You really think they'd do that to you?"

Hermione swallowed hard as she shrugged. "Maybe?"

Though he didn't want to have to be the one to say it, he decided to say it, anyway. "Oh, please. With the way they look at you? They're not going  _anywhere_  if they can help it. So, shall we?"

"Thank you," she said, a shy little half-grin curving her lips. "I know that wasn't pleasant for you to say. We'll cover more ground if we split up. You start upstairs and I'll look in the cellar?"

Nodding, the golden-haired wizard stole a kiss before he headed to the staircase.

Snickering, Hermione turned to start across the floor toward the cellar's entrance, but was immediately stopped. Antonin had silently exited the dining room, and now blocked her path.

She let out a breath as she pressed her palm over her heart. "You gave me a fright!"

"Sorry. I was only wondering, if I help in the search, may I have a kiss, too?"

Biting her bottom lip, she couldn't help averting her gaze a moment. She could feel the flare of a blush warming her cheeks. "You can have a kiss, anyway, but I  _would_  appreciate it if you'd help in the search."

"Mm-hmm." Stepping closer, he slid his hand around the back of her neck and pulled her to him. He kept himself in check, however, only granting her a brief, nearly chaste caress of his lips against hers. "So, I'll take the main floor, then, shall I?"

"Yes, please," she said with a grin.

Nodding, Antonin relinquished his hold on his wife and stepped around her. She turned to watch him go before heading toward the cellar, once more.

* * *

True night had fallen by the time the three met up in the parlor. She didn't have a good feeling from the somber expressions on her husbands' faces.

"Nothing?"

Antonin and Thorfinn exchanged a glance, before both turning their attention to her. They shook their heads in silence.

Hermione pursed her lips, her heart sinking. She could feel that terrible, telltale sting in the tip of her nose, but she forced herself to ignore it.

"I'm sorry," Antonin said. Though, he seemed about to say more, he gave up, shrugging. If the Selwyns had left her, he knew nothing he could say would be of much comfort.

"It's fine . . . ." Sniffling, she shook her head. "No. You know what? It's  _not_  fine, but it is what it is. I think I'll head up to bed, now. I just . . . . I just want to be alone for a bit, if that's okay with the two of you?"

"Yeah, of course," Thorfinn said, and Antonin nodded in agreement.

Meeting their gazes, in turn, she gave each of them a quick kiss before heading up to her room for the night.

* * *

She was pretty sure she hadn't tossed and turned like this since her first night in Selwyn Hall. The first night she'd met them.

Letting out a trembling breath, the shifted against her mattress, once more. She had refused to let herself cry. That would mean accepting they were gone as fact, and she would _not_  do that.

Her internal sense of time during the night had gotten much better since coming to live here. Hermione supposed she should not be surprised by this, given how many nights she'd been awake and active in these months. She could feel it when the time of Augustin's nightly wailing came and went, even though he hadn't done that since he and Corvus had been freed.

There was simply something in the quiet of the house, tonight. It must be her imagination, because she could swear there was some great, echoing emptiness within that silence.

She was so caught up in her line of thinking, in picturing that gaping chasm of . . . of  _nothing_ , that she nearly screamed when she heard a knock at her door.

Forcing a steadying breath, she said, "Come in?"

The door didn't open, the handle didn't even jiggle. Yet, the knocking came, again.

Sitting up in bed, Hermione darted her gaze about the darkened room as she drew her wand from beneath her pillow. She threw back her blanket, but hesitated for a few heartbeats.

Once more, that knocking rattled the wood.

" _Lumos_ ," she said, illuminating the tip of her wand as she got to her feet and hurried to the door.

Taking another breath, she grasped the door's handle. After a moment to steel her nerves, she pulled.

"Oh my god," she breathed out the words, her voice barely audible. She didn't think anything could have prepared her to see him standing at her door, solid-seeming and full of color, again.

"Selwyn?"

At her whispered voice saying his name, he looked up. "It worked," he said, his voice trembled and he braced himself against the doorjamb.

Like the other times they'd tried to join, there was the appearance of being exhausted, as though he were flesh and blood. She knew that wasn't possible. Even in this solid form, he did not actually breathe, he did not tire in the  _human_  sense, but his energy could be drained from exerting too much effort.

"I can't believe it," she said, blinking back tears as she slipped her arms around his waist to hug him.

There was something wrong in the looseness of his hold as he returned her embrace. There seemed no strength in his arms, as though they were simply hanging against her.

Pulling back, she lifted her gaze to his. "What is it? What's wrong?"

He shrugged, his blue eyes a bit dazed as he said, "We're not sure. We finally got it to work, but now . . . ."

_Please don't let this be bad news, please, please, please_ , Hermione thought. She feared the worst—that they would vanish entirely, now that they'd managed this. She was utterly terrified that they would no longer have the strength to stay, regardless of their own wills, because they'd forced themselves this way.

"And now?" she echoed, her brows pinching together.

"We seem to be . . .  _stuck_."

"Stuck? How? I don't under—?"

Hermione cut herself off with a surprised yelp as those blue eyes slid closed and Selwyn collapsed in her arms.

She pressed her back to the doorjamb, lowering herself to the floor with his weight against her. "Thorfinn?! Antonin?!  _Please_ , come quick!"


	19. Chapter 19

**Chapter Nineteen**

Hermione paced, one hand pressed to her mouth as she chewed furiously at her nails. Thorfinn and Antonin, both appearing equally confused and sleep-rumpled, had rushed from their rooms at her panicked shout only moments ago. They'd wrested Selwyn's body from atop her and managed—each of them complaining that the combined entity was  _far_  heavier than it appeared—to pull him over to the bed.

Now, a wide-eyed Antonin raked his fingers through his hair as he looked over the . . . being on his wife's bed. Thorfinn had perched himself carefully on the edge of the mattress, his hands hovering in the air as he, too, examined Selwyn with his gaze.

"Um . . ." the Viking of a wizard finally said as he let his fingers curl into loose fists, but did not lower his hands. "He's . . . they're . . . whatever. Selwyn's not actually  _alive_ , so I don't know how we check if they're okay when they're unconscious, if that's even what this is."

She pried her hand from her mouth, but still had to force out the question, "So you . . . you think they finally managed to join just to end up 'dying', for lack of a better term?"

His broad shoulders slumping, Thorfinn frowned as he turned his attention to her. "Princess, I know it's tearing you up to not understand what's happening with them, and I'd love to be able to give you a straight answer. But I'm pretty sure we're just as clueless on this as you—"

Selwyn's eyes snapped open, a scream escaping him.

The living occupants of the room jumped at the sound, letting out startled sounds of their own. Silence fell as all four of them looked around at one another.

Selwyn forced himself to sit up, only to utter a pained groan as he pressed his palm to his forehead. "What the  _bloody_ hell happened?"

"Seems Corvus has got control of the mouth, just now," Hermione said with a shake of her head.

Selwyn nodded, wincing immediately after.

"We're just as confused as you two." Antonin eased himself into the armchair that faced the bed. "Perhaps if you start at the beginning? Where have you been all day?"

Catching the dark-haired man's gaze, Selwyn's brows pinched together as he gave a confused pout. "All day? We knew it was night, now, but . . . . Okay, then I suppose it was last night, after you lot went to bed."

Hermione settled on her knees on the floor in front of him when he paused. She had the strangest notion that they felt like she'd be disappointed with what they were about to say. She didn't see how she could be, however, not if they were here before her like this.

Meeting her gaze, he sighed. "We were discussing things and we each expressed the concern that our problem was that without the connection to Selwyn Hall, we are no longer capable of tapping into the energy of the property."

"Augustin?"

Selwyn nodded.

Thorfinn leaned toward Antonin as he asked in a stage-whisper, "Am I the only one finds it unsettling how she can tell them apart?"

Antonin shook his head.

Hermione frowned, but kept her attention on Selwyn as she said, "It's in the way they speak. Augustin, what did you and Corvus do?"

Selwyn sighed. "We realized if we were to ever make this," he paused as he waved his hand to indicate his form, "work, then we needed the sort of energy we got from being connected to the house. We understood at the same time that we had just encountered such a thing, we simply had not understood before that it was probably the source of our connection—to each other  _and_  Selwyn Hall—all along."

She let out a shivering breath. "The wand room?"

His eyes drifting closed, Selwyn nodded. "We thought if we tried to join in that room, washed in the dormant energy—as it were—of those wands, we might be able to make it work."

Selwyn's demeanor changed ever so slightly as he let out another sigh and shook his head. "And it worked, as you can see.  _Too_ bloody well is the problem."

"Corvus, please calm down, you're not helping the matter by getting upset." She reached out, laying her hand on his knee—and ignoring the way Thorfinn's brows shot up. "After you got your joining to work, what happened, then? I went into the cellar to look for you. I didn't see you there."

"Well, that's the thing, isn't it?" Selwyn frowned thoughtfully. "We pulled together, and then . . . ." He made a face as though he was listening to something and then nodded. "Yeah, the next thing either of us remember is waking up on the floor of that damned room."

Hermione looked to Thorfinn and then Antonin as she explained, "When they pause like that, they're basically having a conversation."

Her husbands exchanged a glance. They both shrugged and nodded, neither having the foggiest notion of what to say to that.

"We managed to make our way through the house, but our strength gave out by the time we made it to your door." Selwyn shrugged. "The  _actual_  last thing either of us remembers is collapsing on you, and then having the shit scared out of us by waking up to find you three hovering over us like that."

"So you've got no idea what actually happened to you while you were missing?"

Again, Selwyn shrugged, unable to answer Antonin's question any other way.

"Wait." Hermione pushed up to her feet, once more pacing as she spoke. "You said you're stuck, so you _did_  try to separate after you first woke up?"

He nodded. "It obviously didn't work, so I didn't see it as worth mentioning . . . neither did Augustin."

"Okay, but bear with me on this. The room was sealed before now. Maybe being in the direct 'wash' as Augustin called it, of the combined energy of all those dormant wands made your connection stronger."

Selwyn's eyes drifted closed. "You mean maybe it made it  _permanent_."

Hermione nodded, shrugging. "Maybe. Does it . . . ? I mean, is it uncomfortable?"

Selwyn shook his head.

"Then I suppose that's the best we can hope for, for now."

"We—by that, I mean the still-breathing members of the household—should get some sleep," Antonin said, standing. "Perhaps in the morning, we can do some more research and see if there's anything that can be done to—"

"No." Selwyn's voice was firm as he held up his hands.

Antonin arched a brow. "No?"

Shaking his head, Selwyn repeated, "No." He looked around at the wizards, and then at his witch, before averting his gaze, entirely. "No more. No more rituals, or books. Please. We have made up our minds. We are going to stay like this."

Hermione wasn't certain if she should feel saddened, or elated by their declaration. "Really?"

Swallowing hard, Selwyn lifted his eyes to lock on hers. "Yes. We do not ever again want to risk doing something that might force us to leave you. We . . . yes,  _we_  want to stay by your side forever, if you will allow us."

She sniffled, feeling that damnable ping of tears in the corners of her eyes. "Forever is a long time, Augustin."

"Believe me, Hermione." He nodded, his expression solemn. "Of  _that_ , I am already too well aware."

Her shoulders drooping, she moved to stand in front of him. Selwyn lifted his hand, tangling his fingers with hers.

Antonin caught Thorfinn's attention, waving him toward the door. The younger wizard frowned, glancing back at their wife and their . . . household ghost-slash-joined-entity-thing? He stood, anyway and walked over to Antonin. Though, Antonin didn't stop until he'd ushered Thorfinn through the door, and they were both in the corridor outside her room.

"What is it?"

Antonin opened his mouth, but pressed his lips together for a heartbeat before trying again. "I think we should maybe leave them alone for a bit."

Thorfinn's eyebrows shot up as he looked at the door and then returned his attention to the other wizard. "You're joking."

Though he really didn't believe his decision, himself, Antonin gave a half-hearted shrug. "She has some sort of bond with them that neither of us really understands. And they've been through a lot. You love her, right?"

Uttering a scoffing sound, Thorfinn nodded. "Don't be an arse, you know I do."

Antonin met the other man's gaze with a serious expression. "Then let her have this."

His eyes drifting closed, Thorfinn nodded. He didn't exactly like it, but Antonin was right. Though his steps were grudging, he managed to push himself down the corridor, back to his own room.

He turned, refusing to enter until he saw Antonin walk away from Hermione's door, as well. When the other wizard reached the entryway of his own room, however, Thorfinn was struck with a troubling thought.

"Psst," he said in a whispered shout. "Dolohov?"

His shoulders slumping, Antonin didn't turn his head, as he answered, "What?"

Thorfinn couldn't seem to refrain from glancing back toward Hermione's room. "Do you suppose . . . ? I mean, do you wonder if . . . well, if two of them being in the same body might give them more . . . well,  _oomph_?"

Wincing, Antonin dropped his forehead against his door with a light  _thud_. "I wasn't, but now it's been added to the list of things I'm trying not to think about at this moment, thanks  _very_  much. Goodnight, Rowle!"

Thorfinn watched Antonin disappear into his room and shut the door soundly. He smirked for all of two seconds, thinking he'd just shared his discomfort appropriately with the witch's other husband. But then . . . he could not help but wonder what the other things on this list Dolohov didn't want to think about 'at this moment' might be.

Hanging his head, he grumbled to no one at all as he stepped inside his own room. "No, no, no, thanks very much to  _you_ , Dolohov."

* * *

It was several days later when Voldemort looked up at a knock on the door of his Ministry office chambers. Did he have any business today that he did not recall?

"Enter."

Draco Malfoy popped his head into the room, letting the Dark Lord see who his visitor was before stepping inside. Closing the door behind him, the pale-haired young man immediately dropped down on one knee.

After a moment of considering him—the Malfoy heir had proven to be such a good little soldier, quite a pleasant surprise after how utterly his parents had failed—Voldemort smirked. "Rise."

Nodding, Draco stood, but kept his gaze averted. "Forgive me for intruding on your day, My Lord, but I needed to speak with you urgently about something."

Sitting back in his chair, the serpentine wizard steepled his fingers before him. "Oh? And what is so very pressing, Draco?"

With a heavy sigh, Draco finally lifted his attention to the Dark Lord. "I don't mean to step above my station, but I need to ask. Have Dolohov or Rowle recently asked permission to take Granger—apologies, My Lord—their wife with them on a task for you?"

Once more, Voldemort considered him for a moment, idly stroking his chin before answering. "As a matter of fact, they have. I rather thought their reasoning a bit . . . highbrow for the likes of Rowle, but Dolohov has always proven himself crafty. Why should you ask? But, more over, how did you _know_?"

Draco slumped his shoulders, giving his best contrite look—the one he affected when he wanted his mother to step and stop his father from scolding him—and again dropped his gaze to the floor. "You recall you wanted me to keep an eye on her, and an ear out for anything suspicious? The last time I visited with them, I overhead something troubling."

"Do not keep me in suspense, boy."

The younger wizard swallowed hard, suddenly uncertain if this really would work. "It's Dolohov and Rowle, My Lord. They've actually come to  _care_ for their Mudblood," he said, managing to sound as though even speaking such words sickened him. "Taking her along on their mission is a ruse. They mean to use it as a way to get her out of Selwyn Hall . . . and bring her here. To face you."

"That is preposterous." Voldemort actually chuckled. "Hermione  _Dolohov-Rowle_  does not even possess a wand with which to—"

"She does, now."

His dead, cold eyes shot wide at this revelation. "What? How?"

Once more, Draco dropped down into a deep, kneeling bow. "Forgive me, My Lord, but I've no idea! All I know is that is their plan. You only permit them escape from their home long enough to undertake a mission, from what I heard, it sounds like they mean to begin their task, and then leave it unfinished, so they are not compelled to return to Selwyn Hall. Beyond that, I'm so sorry, but I do not know what else they might have discussed. I feared they might catch me listening, and my cover would be compromised."

"Their mission is tomorrow. A change of plans will have to—"

"My Lord, if I may?"

Voldemort arched one bald eyebrow. "Yes?"

"If you change plans on such short notice, they may realize you're on to them. Your best option is to let them think you suspect nothing."

Narrowing his eyes, the Dark Lord nodded. "I see your point. Very well. I suppose I shall have to arrange a to have a . . . surprise inspection of your brothers-in-arms at work."

Draco remained silent, waiting to be dismissed, or questioned further. When Voldemort said nothing more for a few, solid heartbeats, the Malfoy heir forced himself to look up.

It seemed the other wizard was waiting for him to lift his gaze, and he started a little to find those unforgiving eyes locked on his. He could feel the Dark Lord's will poking and prodding, trying to force its way into his mind. With the calm veneer his aunt had taught him, he let slip carefully detailed lies. Deliberately crafted false memories of overhearing the conversation, or floundering to not get caught eavesdropping by his _gracious_  hosts.

A grin curving his thin lips, the Dark Lord visibly relaxed, nodding, once more. "Draco, tell me . . . ."

"Yes, My Lord?"

"Do you wish some type of reward for this?"

The young man shook his head. "No. You spared my parents when they both failed you. I know mercy is not in your nature, so I would think to ask for nothing else."

"Very well. You may go."

Bowing once more, Draco climbed to his feet and exited the office. It was all he could do not to collapse in a useless heap of frayed nerves right outside the door to the Minister's office. Somehow he forced himself all the way to his own work station, practically spilling himself into his chair when he got there.

He waited for his fingers to stop trembling before he could pick up his quill and get to back to work. A battle he could handle, but face-to-face alone with the Dark Lord, fretting his betrayal could be discovered at any moment was one experience he'd rather not relive,  _ever_  again, if he could help it.

However, as he started back on his orb transcriptions, he realized . . . . He'd not managed to get the location of Dolohov and Rowle's assignment from the Dark Lord. Not that he very much had the opportunity to without risking the elder wizard's suspicion.

Still, he needed to think of some way to . . . . Later, he nodded, focusing on his work. Later, he would owl Hermione, thanking her for a lovely time at tea the other day—though, if the Dark Lord got hold of it, it would look more like he was rubbing her forced-upon role as good little hostess in a pure-blood home in her face.

And he'd include a little something . . . extra.

* * *

"So this is really happening, tomorrow?"

Antonin and Thorfinn looked up at her. Hermione was staring out the window, watching the sun sink lower in the sky.

"Seems so." Antonin nodded. "We've been discussing this for weeks, almost doesn't feel real."

Thorfinn had been silent most of the day. Hermione knew he was stinging over the time she'd been spending with Selwyn, but this seemed like something else, entirely. Like most everything else about their situation, it seemed both of her husbands had come to accept—albeit grudgingly—whatever it was she and their very peculiar house ghosts had together.

So, that he was quiet, still, when there was only a scant day's time between then and what would hopefully end all of this, one way or another, she could not help but be concerned.

"Thorfinn?"

He didn't look up. "Hmm?"

"You've been rather pensive today. Care to share?"

Swallowing hard, he shrugged. "We've never discussed the wooly mammoth in the room."

Her eyebrows shot up. Antonin simply turned his head to look at the other man, his brows lifting, as well.

His shoulders slumping, Thorfinn sighed as he said, "We've never talked about what's to happen  _after_."

Antonin's eyes drifted closed. Clearly this was a question he'd not asked, because he'd not wanted to think about what her answer might be.

She looked from one wizard to the other, and back. "You . . . you mean will I stay with the two of you once we're not bound here like this?"

They both nodded.

Letting out a long, low breath that shivered just a bit as it spilled from her lips, she made her way across the parlor. She dropped her gaze to the floor while she settled on the ottoman before the sofa, between their seats, so she faced them, both . . . sort of.

"Well, I can't say I haven't thought about this." She forced a gulp down her throat as she nodded. "First thing is that I'm going to free Caster and Bridy, but I know they've both grown quite fond of this house, so I suppose they can stay on if they wish, as willing employees and members of this household, not  _just_  servants. But I can only see to that happening, if I'm still here."

"You—you mean—"

"I mean to say, Thorfinn, that I've really grown quite accustomed to my life here, with the two of you, as well, and if it's all the same to the both of you, I'd like it if our lives could continue like this . . . . Only, you know, I'll be able to get a job, or something. Come and go as I please, and all that."

Her husbands exchanged a glance. "You . . . ?" Thorfinn couldn't seem to finish the question.

Antonin held up his hand blindly at the other man, to prevent him stumbling over his own words, any more. "You want to stay with  _us_?"

The witch pouted, nodding. "And I'd appreciate it if neither of you make too much of it."

"And, what? We just keep living here?"

At Thorfinn's question, Selwyn answered from the doorway. "We don't see why not. It's your home, after all."

Thorfinn glowered as Antonin started a little, turning to face the parlor's entrance. "You've got to stop doing things like that."

Hermione tried not to laugh as Selwyn made a face she recognized as him holding back a grin.

"Sorry," he said, though she was pretty sure neither of her husbands believed him. "But it's true. We're in agreement. You're welcome to stay here. You do legally own the place. Or, didn't you know that? The Dark Lord had the deed signed into your names. Well, Thorfinn and Antonin's names, anyway."

"Why on earth . . . ?"

Selwyn frowned, shrugging. "We think it's tied into the charm he has on you three, the one that locks you three here unless he permits otherwise."

"Suppose that makes sense."

Nodding, Selwyn caught Hermione's gaze with his. "Can we talk to you a minute?"

"Of course," she said, nodding back as she rose from the ottoman and walked over to them.

Sooner than Antonin or Thorfinn could grumble about how easily she went to Selwyn's side—or that she disappeared with him just beyond the threshold, where neither of them could see—there came a tapping at the window. They shared a look before Antonin rose and walked across the room.

Opening the window, he found an owl patiently waiting on the sill. He looked about, hastily grabbing up a handful of treats and offering them to the messenger as he took the sealed envelope.

As he closed the window and turned back around, he could feel Thorfinn's displeased gaze on him.

"Those are  _Stryx's_  treats," the Viking admonished in a hissing tone.

Antonin shook his head as he set to opening the missive. "Yes, well, tell your bird he can take it up with me, directly, if he's got a problem."

"You're  _joking_!"

Both wizards turned their heads toward the parlor entryway, craning their necks to try to see around it at their wife's shout. As though sensing the focus of their attention, she ducked back into the room for a split second as she said, "Just ignore me."

Antonin rolled his eyes, shaking his head once more as he pulled the parchment from its sleeve. "What the bloody hell?" He cautiously eyed the bound collection of tea leaves folded into the letter.

"Oh, like I'd know?" Thorfinn said with a frown. "Hermione, come in here, please?"

She seemed to stumble back into the room, earning Selwyn narrow-eyed glares from her husbands. She was breathless and clearly trying to stifle a giggle, which certainly didn't help matters.

"What is it?"

"A letter from Draco, and . . . some tea, I think?"

Frowning, she came to stand beside Antonin. Taking the letter from his fingers, she examined the small bundle of leaves before reading.

"He got to Voldemort . . . . Yes, he plans to show up during your assigned task tomorrow evening and  _surprising_  us."

"So what's with the leaves?" Thorfinn asked, arching a brow.

"Well, the message is coded as an admonishment for  _my_  elves not being able to brew a proper pot of tea. He wasn't able to get the location from Voldemort, so . . . ." She smirked, holding up the leaves. "So we bring this with us tomorrow, so he and Rabastan and the others will know  _precisely_  where to find us."

Once more, her husbands exchanged a glance before returning their attention to her.

"Oh, yes," she said, breaking into a full-on smile. "Draco's really outdone himself, this time. These leaves, gentlemen . . . are, in  _fact_ , a locator charm."


	20. Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who has trusted me to take you on this journey with me. I hope you enjoyed the story, and am elated every time a reader tells me they grew to love my Selwyns.

**Chapter Twenty**

"A bit flashy for battle, isn't it?" Thorfinn asked in a low voice, as he eyed the bejeweled choker adorning his wife's throat. Not that it wasn't a perfect compliment for the low neckline of the black lace dress she wore—another hardly battle-worthy choice, but it was not as though she had access to her old Muggle attire—yet it was strange wardrobe accompaniment, given that she'd not seen fit to indulge in the boxes upon boxes of jewelry she now owned as the Lady of Selwyn Hall.

Hermione shrugged, whispering back as they crept alongside Antonin through the old house to which their summons had sent them. "Well, it wasn't a decision made for its looks," she said with a shrug. "I know you're going ask, anyway. It's . . . it's for the Selwyns. I charmed it so they'll know if something happens to me."

Thorfinn rolled his eyes, but Antonin, once again proving he had the wisdom that came with being the older of the two, nodded. "They would want to know if you're never coming back. It isn't exactly a possibility I wish to think about, but maybe then they could move on."

"Be no reason for any of us to stick around there, if that were the case."

She halted, too aware of the each of them pausing in mid-stride, as well. Turning to face Thorfinn, she stared at him a moment. She shifted her attention to Antonin, before considering them both as she raised her hand, stroking the tips of her fingers over the choker.

How on earth was it possible that from such a nightmarish situation as they'd been handed months ago, there had emerged such a love? The tip of her nose stung as she thought on the men who shared her home. It was a thing so complicated and confusing, and yet all at once, it was also so simple . . . so pure and so perfect, and she could not understand _any_  of it if she thought on it too long.

"Well, then," she said, watery smile playing on her lips as she decided, in a very un-Hermione-like thought process, to simply  _not_  think on this, "let's just focus on winning, shall we?"

Thorfinn stepped closer, that cheeky smirk of his curving his mouth. "Kiss before possibly dying for you?"

Blinking rapidly a few times to keep what had almost been a few pesky tears at bay, she said, "It's not for  _me_ , per se, but yes, I think I can do that."

He grinned, pulling her close. But no sooner had he lowered his mouth to hers, granting her an especially hungry kiss, did they both hear Antonin awkwardly—and perhaps a bit more loudly than was necessary—clearing his throat.

Reluctantly taking his mouth from hers, Thorfinn glared over his shoulder at her other husband. "Oy! Might be the last time I get to do this!"

Folding his arms across his chest, Antonin nodded, though not without rolling his eyes so hard, the lids fluttered.

Giving her another—this time, quicker—kiss, Thorfinn relinquished his hold on her and stepped back. Turning his head to stare daggers at the other wizard, he said, "Happy?"

"To see you kissing  _my_ wife? Never," Antonin said, though there was an edge of humor to his voice.

Hermione smiled. She couldn't help it. This was a moment of levity, and of closeness, they all needed before they were to step outside into the rundown courtyard— _supposedly_  on their way to the Ministry.

Arching a brow, she met Antonin's dark-eyed gaze. "I suppose you'll be wanting a 'might-be-our-last' kiss, too?"

He frowned thoughtfully as he moved closer to her. "Maybe."

"Oh,  _Merlin_ , save me," Thorfinn said with a hushed chuckle, averting his gaze.

The witch snickered, shaking her head as she slid her arms around Antonin's neck, pulling him down to meet her. As usual, his kiss wasn't nearly as forceful as Thorfinn's, there was a strange, solemn feel to it, though. As if he expected the longer he merely pressed his lips to hers, the more likely she'd carry the sensation of his kiss with her until  _someone_  fell to another's wandstrike.

Pulling back, she met his gaze once more. God help her, that someone was  _not_  going to be her!

Antonin's eyes narrowed. "Hermione?"

"Hmm?"

"Did you happen to give Selwyn a 'might-be-our-last' kiss, before we left, too?"

Backpedaling a step from him, she clasped her hands in front of her. "That sort of question is business between a lady and her ghosts, sir."

Her husbands exchanged a look, both of them slumping their shoulders as they nodded. "She did," they said in the same breath.

Again, she snickered, carefully weighing her gaze as she darted her attention between the two of them. The brightness in her expression faded as she said, "I love you. Both of you."

Thorfinn flashed her that familiar smirk of his one more time, nodding as he winked. "Yeah, we know."

Antonin smiled, nodding in agreement as he drew his wand. "C'mon. Time to go meet our fate."

Swallowing hard, Hermione drew hers, as did Thorfinn. With a final look around at each other, they started for the back entrance of the house, once more.

Their mutual shift in attitude caused a sudden change in their atmosphere, as well. In the space of a heartbeat, the simple, if large, antiquated house became looming. Every creak of the old wooden structure echoed in their ears and each shadow deepened and swayed in the corners of their eyes.

"Quick, clean, decisive," she said to herself under her breath as she braced, affecting an expression of calm and steeling her nerves. If she set foot outside looking at though she expected something, it could all be over before it started.

If she kept her focus, and kept to the plan, this would be over in just a few, precious—if utterly nerve wracking—minutes.

Antonin pushed open the back door. Thorfinn had to force himself not to step through ahead of her. Of course it was his gut instinct, but if they were to behave as though they did not expect the Dark Lord's presence somewhere on the grounds, then he had to follow the rule of ladies first. Damn stupid pure-blood etiquette.

Hermione exited the house, making her way across the dead, dry grass at a brisk pace. The chill in the air made a perfect cover for the shiver that coursed through her for a moment. When a glance about told her they were alone, she turned her attention to her husbands, each doing a magnificent job at keeping the weariness in their expressions hidden.

"All right, gents," she said, quickly scanning the surroundings of the house behind the wizards. She tried to tell herself she actually glimpsed the movement back there, rather than it being some work of her currently excitable imagination. "From where should we set—?"

The distinct popping sound of someone Apparating in the distance cut through the quiet evening air. She turned, looking appropriately shocked as a two other pops followed.

There stood the Dark Lord, his wand held in a firm grip, and pointed directly at Hermione. At his shoulders stood Lucius Malfoy and Goyle, Sr., their weapons drawn on her husbands. They waited just outside the wide open and falling-apart gate of the courtyard.

The witch swallowed hard, hoping fervently that the others were in place.

Her eyes drifting closed, she took a step. "Tom?" she said, allowing her voice to shake. "To what do we owe this surprise?"

Lucius appeared affronted at her daring informality. Baring his teeth, he muttered something under his breath.

"Do not fret, Lucius. She shall pay for her disrespect. That and more, in fact." He took a step, himself, but moved no closer. That lividity the Selwyns had noted finally slipped free in his tone as he declared, "You have forced my hand, Hermione. If I must lock you and your doting,  _pathetic_ , treacherous husbands away for years to make this happen, that _is_  what I shall do!"

_Yes!_  "To make what happen?!"

Smirking wickedly, Voldemort glared daggers at her as he lowered his voice so that she had to strain to hear him across the distance. "I  _will_  have my general, Hermione. I will _have_ my army, and your stubbornness shall not stand in my way any longer!"

"Your general?" she echoed, breathless as she pressed her free hand over her abdomen for a fleeting second. All at once it made sense. She'd said it herself to Antonin and Thorfinn, hadn't she? He'd wanted to kill Harry . . . because he couldn't sway him to his side. Harry Potter . . . the boy who lived. The boy who nearly ended him.

Harry Potter, son of an especially bright Muggle-born witch, and a pure-blood father.

"I would sooner end your miserable life," she said, raising her wand at him, her grip steady.

As she took another step toward him, Voldemort chuckled. "Oh, you will  _finally_  learn your place, you filthy little Mudblood!"

Hermione flinched as he sent one _hell_  of a stinging hex hurling straight at her. The arching energy shattered before her, scattering into the air and dispersing, entirely.

At the display, she smiled, immediately breathless as she met Voldemort's shocked gaze. "No!" He turned his attention to her husbands, lashing out at each of them to find a similar effect.

"Shielding charms _?!_ "

Hermione Dolohov-Rowle squared her shoulders, her wand arm steady as started toward the Dark Lord. She did not charge, or run . . . she did not even advance on him at a storming pace. The witch was _strolling_  across the would-be-battlefield toward him.

As she moved closer, he tried, again and again. The more he tried, the more he realized . . . there was an element he was not seeing. They had not cast these charms, themselves—the magic was being cast, and fortified, by unseen hands.

"Malfoy, Goyle!" he shouted, outraged by the trap. "There are others. Find them!"

When neither of them moved to follow his command, he turned to take in the sight behind him. Goyle held his hands up, his wand dropped to the ground at his feet. Lucius Malfoy, his expression one of utter peace and calm, had the tip of his wand jabbed into his former friend's pudgy throat.

"Malfoy! How dare you—"

"No one forces my son into anything, My  _Lord_." His voice was just as serene as his expression, perhaps even haughty.

Angry beyond reason, Voldemort snapped his attention back to the witch making her way toward him. She was already before him, and he could not fathom how she'd moved so fast, unless something in the environment was disorienting him.

He recalled, then, a little wobbling sensation as he'd come out of Apparation. Malfoy must've used the natural disorientation of that form of travel to cast a  _Confundus_  on him! There was betrayal on  _all_  sides of him!

Hermione hid a triumphant smirk at the wash of realization across his snaky face. He faltered, his wandhand sagging just a little.

"Now!"

All at once, there was a glittering over her, Antonin, and Thorfinn, as the shields guarding them splintered and fell away. Voldemort tightened his grip on his weapon, lifting it once more.

_"Expelliarmus!"_

The Dark Lord actually started as the Elder Wand flew from his grip. He bellowed in anger while those  _others_  he knew had been lying in wait appeared. From the sides of the house, out of the shadows cast by foliage.

Hearing more rustling at his back, he glanced behind him. There stood Rabastan Lestrange and Draco Malfoy, with their _filthy_ , Mudblood wives. Oh, they had played him beautifully. He'd actually laugh at this if not for how utterly furious he was.

"Like a fly in a web," Hermione said, aiming her wand at his heart, "I have trapped you, Tom."

"I truly underestimated you, Hermione." He shook his head. No matter, he had played the waiting game before, he could do it, again. "I was _never_  going to break the shields, was I?"

She recognized his attempt to distract her with flattery—to hint for her to look around at her cohorts. Instead, she kept her gaze steadily on his. "No. Scattered across the grounds, a  _brilliant_  network of charm casting . . . a spiderwebbed network with no discernible beginning, or end."

"Go on, then," the Dark Lord said with a bored sigh. "Have me carted off to Azkaban, if you honestly think I will not find a way—"

"No, Tom." Her tone was suddenly icy and she swallowed hard. "This ends, now. You. Die.  _Here_."

"You don't have it in you to cast an Unforgivable Curse."

Hermione's brows drew upward, her expression terrifyingly calm. "Your arrogance has always been your greatest shortcoming. That and, as Harry once suggested, your inability to understand love. You threaten me, I could not care less." She took a menacing step forward as she practically snarled her next words, "You threaten those I care for, and I will stop at nothing to hurt you."

"You are bluffing," Voldemort said, his chin lifting in defiance.

"What I am . . . is not someone with legal recognition as a person in Wizarding Britain, you saw to that. And someone who is not a person cannot be held accountable for their actions. Actions like . . . casting the Killing Curse?"

His eyes shooting wide, Voldemort dropped down, making a lunge for his discarded wand.

" _Avada Kedavra_!"

Hermione looked up, startled, as she followed the arc of acid green energy back to its source. "Mr. Malfoy?"

Lucius let out a shivering breath. Goyle, still beside him, looked too overwhelmed by the scene to react, merely staring down at their fallen leader.

Lifting his gaze to meet Hermione's, he simply repeated, "No one forces  _my_  son into anything."

She couldn't help a shaky smile. "You are a good father, after all."

"It was about bloody time," he said, before grabbing Goyle by the collar with his free hand. "Good day, Mrs. Dolohov-Rowle, isn't it?"

"It is," she said, pride in her voice, as she watched him Disapparate, tugging his former friend side-along.

Finally, she turned attention toward the approaching sounds of rustling coming toward them. She could not believe this was finally over. The relief that crashed through her was so great, she wasn't sure how her knees kept from buckling.

She was dimly aware of Antonin slipping his arms around her to steady her as she watched the familiar faces of those she now could not help but think of as her friends coming closer.

Penelope and Draco, Elisha and Rabastan, they all stopped to examine Voldemort's lifeless form before swarming her with congratulations. She was breathless, again, grateful tears pouring from her eyes, by the time she'd finished talking with all of them.

"And you!" she said, catching Draco in a hug. "I _never_  thought I'd be so happy to see your father!"

The pale-haired wizard chuckled, hugging her back. "I knew he was going to do that. He didn't want one of us having to 'sully our souls', as he put it."

She smirked, assuming that by us, he could only mean his own son as well as the Muggle-born witches present. So, Draco _wasn't_ the only Malfoy the War had brought out the best in, after all.

"And, I believe this is yours, now," Thorfinn said, his tone reverent as he held the Elder Wand out to her. "What do you plan to do with it?"

Taking the wand, she held it up, examining the ancient weapon in the dying light of day. "No one should have this power. I'll seal it away with Augustin's father's collection."

"Are you sure?" Elisha asked, her pretty face scrunching in disbelief.

"Yes. I can't bare to destroy something so storied, but . . . it would be foolish to think anyone should wield it." Smiling wistfully, Hermione lowered the wand, turning her attention to the other witch. "And you should go home and rest. I devised those shield charms, I know holding them was no easy task."

"All right, all right. Tea tomorrow?"

Hermione's expression brightened as she nodded. "Perhaps at your house, this time?"

* * *

Hermione watched them all Disapparate. Penelope was headed to Malfoy Manor to inform her mother-in-law of the good news, Draco was bringing Voldemort's remains back to the Ministry to start the ball rolling on restoring power to its rightful hands, and Rabastan was fretting over the form of travel as he escorted Elisha home.

Thorfinn turned just in time to catch Hermione, clutching both her wands in one hand as she pressed the palm of her free hand against her abdomen. With a start, he recalled her doing that for the briefest second while facing down the Dark Lord.

"You rotten little minx! You're pregnant!"

Her brows shooting up she looked from him to Antonin—who turned his head to look at her over his shoulder, his dark eyes impossibly wide, before he pivoted on his heel to face her fully. "Well, I—"

"You must be joking!" the older wizard all but bellowed. "You came out here, knowing how dangerous this might have been while you're pregnant?!"

"And this was precisely why I didn't tell you two." She sighed, shaking her head. "I needed to be here. I  _needed_  to see this through, and I knew you'd sooner lock me in the cellar than let me come here if you found out."

Antonin shook his head, as well, disbelief pinching his features. "I don't, I can't . . . I can't believe . . . ."

Thorfinn, on the other hand, lifted her up off her feet in a hug. But no sooner had he set her back down, than did he look over at Antonin. "Bet it's mine."

"Oh, wouldn't  _you_  just figure?" her other husband said in a sour tone. "It's probably mine."

Hermione laughed, holding up her hand before they could break into a bickering match of  _I'm the father—no,_ I'm _the father_. "I will make you two a deal. Whoever is  _not_  the father, well, let's just say that after this one is born and the Medi-witch gives me the okay . . . he'll get as  _many_ opportunities as I'm willing to give to catch up."

Smiling, she let them think that over as she started off toward the same place from where the others had Disapparated.

"Oh, then you're definitely the father," Thorfinn said with a smirk.

"So typical." Antonin laughed, shaking his head. "This is probably what she was being so secretive about with Selwyn yesterday."

Thorfinn nodded. "Well, at least we know it can't be Selwyn's."

After a moment, their smiles faded as they each realized . . . . None of them had the faintest clue how whatever Selwyn was actually  _worked_.

Exchanging a worried glance, the wizards took off after their wife at a run, calling in unison, "Hermione!"

**THE END**


End file.
